MATT SIMPSON 55

The other side of the street. . . is a row of faces watching. The windows are the glad-eyes of the street. The gawping doors with tongues held back will wag their say when this is done.

expect her to be ladylike. But let them bite on silence for a while. She will dress, will not be carried down, an ambulance is indignity enough

This is like the last of trams, the last Cunarder facing the horizon. They observe her exit, marvelling. Something is affirmed and lost in this. Each one of them can see her clutch her handbag to her pain.

They, give them their due,