There were several items that she needed to buy, but above all, if she went out walking  that would cover up for the noticeable change in her habits in staying at home so much. She had developed a certain way of making her escape. On reaching the front door she rushed out into the busy life of the street with her eyes closed, as if jumping off a springboard. Once she felt the hard paving stones under her feet and knew that the warm torrent of humanity was around her, she went on in nervous haste, or as much haste as a lady could show without attracting attention, walking straight ahead with her eyes fixed on the ground, in the very natural fear of meeting that dangerous gaze again. If the woman was lying in wait, then at least she didn’t want to know it. And yet she realised that she was thinking of nothing else, and she jumped in alarm when someone touched her by chance in brushing past. Her nerves reacted painfully to every sound, every footstep behind her, every moving shadow. Only in a vehicle or in a building that she did not know could she breathe freely again.

A gentleman said good afternoon to her. Looking up, she recognised a family friend from the days of her youth, a friendly, talkative man with a grey beard. She usually tried to avoid him because of his way of talking for hours on end about his ailments, which were very likely imaginary. Today, however, she was sorry that she had merely returned his greeting instead of seeking his company. Walking with an acquaintance would have been good protection against another unexpected attack from her blackmailer. She hesitated, and was considering turning back, when she felt as if someone were coming up fast behind her, and instinctively, without stopping to think, she hurried on again. But still, with a sense of foreboding cruelly enhanced by fear, she felt that someone was rapidly approaching behind her back, and she herself walked faster and faster, although she knew that she could not escape pursuit in the end. Her shoulders were beginning to shrink in anticipation of the hand that now—for the steps were coming closer and closer—she felt sure would touch her next moment, and the more she tried to quicken her pace the heavier her knees felt. She sensed that the pursuer was very close.

“Irene!” called a voice behind her urgently, yet speaking in a soft tone, and coming to her senses, she realised that it was not, after all, the voice she feared, the terrible messenger of doom. Breathing a sigh of relief, she turned. It was her lover, and when she stopped so suddenly he almost collided with her. His face was pale, bearing all the signs of agitation, and now, under her uncomprehending gaze, he also looked ashamed. Uncertainly, he raised his hand in greeting and let it sink again when she did not offer him hers. The sight of him was so unexpected that she just stared at him for one or two seconds. In these days of fear, she had forgotten all about him. But now that she saw his pale, inquiring face at close quarters, with that expression of vacant perplexity, a hot wave of rage suddenly surged up in her. Her lips trembled, attempting to form words, and the distress in her face showed so clearly that he could only stammer her name in alarm. “Irene, what’s the matter?” And when he saw her impatient gesture, he added meekly, “What harm have I done you?”

She stared at him with barely repressed anger. “What harm have you done me?” she said, with a laugh of derision. “Oh, none! None at all! You’ve done only good! Only what’s right and proper.”

His expression was baffled, and his mouth dropped half-open, increasing the ridiculously simple-minded effect of his appearance. “But Irene … Irene!”

“Please don’t attract attention here!” she snapped at him brusquely. “And don’t trouble to put on an act for me! Your delightful lady friend is sure to be lurking somewhere near, ready to attack me again!”

“Who … who do you mean?”

She could have slapped his foolishly baffled, distorted face. She already felt her hand clutching her umbrella.