‘You can’t prove nothing. She went about in a negligent November London that had become very dark and foggy and greasy and forbidding indeed, and tried to find that modest but independent employment she had so rashly assumed. She looked directly at his face, his perpetually graying hair, his hawkish nose, his long cheekbones. He strangled the infant, which slipped out of his hands and screamed. Ah, these English! They travelled all over, up and down the world, not to acquire information but rather to leave the impress of their superiority as a race. ‘Because she, naturally enough, does not consider that it is in any way my affair.
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