"Yes," Saxon nodded. "It died."
Tear's welled into her eyes, and the telling of her grief seemed
to have brought relief. But all the day she suffered from an
almost overwhelming desire to recite her sorrow to the world--to
the paying teller at the bank, to the elderly floor-walker in
Salinger's, to the blind woman, guided by a little boy, who
played on the concertina--to every one save the policeman. The
police were new and terrible creatures to her now. She had seen
them kill the strikers as mercilessly as the strikers had killed
the scabs. And, unlike the strikers, the police were professional
killers. They were not fighting for jobs. They did it as a
business. They could have taken prisoners that day, in the angle
of her front steps and the house. But they had not.
Unconsciously, whenever approaching one, she edged across the
sidewalk so as to get as far as possible away from him. She did
not reason it out, but deeper than consciousness was the feeling
that they were typical of something inimical to her and hers.
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