Here she walked more slowly, looking constantly at the notices in the shop windows. She had felt deserving of the punishment, as he had been mainly concerned that she would be killed by accidentally falling into the pit, but it was a terrible insult. I have read that authors are very selfish and self-centred. Sometimes her straying mind would become astonishingly active—embroidering bright and decorative things that she could say to Capes; sometimes it passed into a state of passive acquiescence, into a radiant, formless, golden joy. In his way he was critical. If I’m late again I’ll have to serve another detention!” She excused herself, hoping it was not too obvious she was running away.
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