Michelle winked at her and left to join the gathering of seats in the center of the theater. "An idea has just occurred to me," said Gay, "which Jack's narrative has suggested. ‘You’re not going to kill me this time. And there arose too, a background of shouts. “What did it matter?” she cried. How does one get work? She walked along the Strand and across Trafalgar Square, and by the Haymarket to Piccadilly, and so through dignified squares and palatial alleys to Oxford Street; and her mind was divided between a speculative treatment of employment on the one hand, and breezes—zephyr breezes—of the keenest appreciation for London, on the other. She refused to eat.
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