He did not raise his eyes till he heard his wife descending the stairs.
It was as he had guessed. She was dressed for going out.
Mrs Verloc was a free woman. She had thrown open the window of the
bedroom either with the intention of screaming Murder! Help! or of
throwing herself out. For she did not exactly know what use to make of
her freedom. Her personality seemed to have been torn into two pieces,
whose mental operations did not adjust themselves very well to each
other. The street, silent and deserted from end to end, repelled her by
taking sides with that man who was so certain of his impunity. She was
afraid to shout lest no one should come. Obviously no one would come.
Her instinct of self-preservation recoiled from the depth of the fall
into that sort of slimy, deep trench. Mrs Verloc closed the window, and
dressed herself to go out into the street by another way. She was a free
woman. She had dressed herself thoroughly, down to the tying of a black
veil over her face. As she appeared before him in the light of the
parlour, Mr Verloc observed that she had even her little handbag hanging
from her left wrist. . . . Flying off to her mother, of course.
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