His fingers slipped under the collar of her linen shift and he tore it open with a swipe. “You are coming in, aren’t you, Sydney?” “If I may,” he answered. In a little while he and she were talking quite easily and agreeably. “You mean to tell me” he said, “that you have a lover? While I have been keeping you! Yes—keeping you!” This view of life he hurled at her as if it were an offensive missile. The place was pockmarked with window-like holes everywhere—people were always 138 falling into them and breaking bones--it was for these lookouts why she had chosen it. A gaunt, powerful man: no feature of his face decided, and yet for all that it had the significance of a countenance hewn out of rock. In the middle there was a gate.
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