The rest were hieroglyphic characters, executed in red chalk and charcoal. He righted a chair and sat in it, his face in his hands. The streets were deserted as they drove past familiar sites. “Number 13, please, cabman. Wood. The prostitute’s attack was predictable, typical. “Why should women be dependent on men?” she asked; and the question was at once converted into a system of variations upon the theme of “Why are things as they are?”—“Why are human beings viviparous?”—“Why are people hungry thrice a day?”—“Why does one faint at danger?” She stood for a time looking at the dry limbs and still human face of that desiccated unwrapped mummy from the very beginnings of social life. Don’t be afraid to go on thinking it.
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