“Dear John,” she whispered. "It's very well you haven't crushed the poor little thing to death with this confounded clothes'-bag. She mentioned, with familiar respect, Christ and Buddha and Shelley and Nietzsche and Plato. Sir John once more looked around him. I want to make you feel that here is a place where the crowd does not clamor nor ill-winds blow. He stopped on the curb-stone, not facing her but as if he was on his way to cross the road, and spoke to her suddenly over his shoulder. She had to school herself to speak the words which she knew would cut him like a knife.
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