She had a feeling as though something had dropped from her eyes, as though she had just discovered herself for the first time—discovered herself as a sleepwalker might do, abruptly among dangers, hindrances, and perplexities, on the verge of a cardinal crisis. It was in the quiet streets and squares toward Oxford Street that it first came into her head disagreeably that she herself was being followed. “But what are you going to do?” asked Hetty. Cathy threw Mike a look. The Night-Cellar. It did seem germane to the matter that so many of the people “in the van” were plain people, or faded people, or tired-looking people. Least of all myself. She spoke with fluent enthusiasm. .
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