"I did see them on the platform of the bridge—the child and his preserver! They were not struck by the fallen ruin, nor whelmed in the roaring flood,—or, if they were, they escaped as I escaped. It now came to him with an added thrill how well she had told her story; simply and directly, no skipping, no wandering hither and yon: from the first hour she could remember, to the night she had fled in the proa, a clear sustained narrative. ‘Your wife?’ ‘My wife,’ he repeated, rising also, his smile mocking her. There is a place—This isn’t the place. At the least, the tales had the ability to make her forget where she was; which was something in their favour. Robbed of their prey, the fury of the mob became ungovernable. And I have seen work by his pupils myself that struck me as being—well, next door to shameful. She tolerated spitballs in her curly hair and had to buy a new backpack when hers was stolen.
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