ThroughthedisusedgraveyardintheparishofSt.Pancras,FannyElmerstrayedbetweenthewhitetombswhichleanagainstthewall,crossingthegrasstoreadaname,hurryingonwhenthegrave-keeperapproached,hurryingintothestreet,pausingnowbyawindowwithbluechina,nowquicklymakingupforlosttime,abruptlyenteringabaker'sshop,buyingrolls,addingcakes,goingonagainsothatanyonewishingtofollowmustfairlytrot.Shewasnotdrablyshabby,though.Sheworesilkstockings,andsilver-buckledshoes,onlytheredfeatherinherhatdrooped,andtheclaspofherbagwasweak,foroutfellacopyofMadameTussaud'sprogrammeasshewalked.Shehadtheanklesofastag.Herfacewashidden.Ofcourse,inthisdusk,rapidmovements,quickglances,andsoaringhopescomenaturallyenough.ShepassedrightbeneathJacob'swindow.
Thehousewasflat,dark,andsilent.Jacobwasathomeengageduponachessproblem,theboardbeingonastoolbetweenhisknees.Onehandwasfingeringthehairatthebackofhishead.Heslowlybroughtitforwardandraisedthewhitequeenfromhersquarethenputherdownagainonthesamespot.Hefilledhispiperuminatedmovedtwopawnsadvancedthewhiteknightthenruminatedwithonefingeruponthebishop.NowFannyElmerpassedbeneaththewindow.
ShewasonherwaytosittoNickBramhamthepainter.
ShesatinafloweredSpanishshawl,holdinginherhandayellownovel.
"Alittlelower,alittlelooser,so—better,that'sright,"Bramhammumbled,whowasdrawingher,andsmokingatthesametime,andwasnaturallyspeechless.Hisheadmighthavebeentheworkofasculptor,whohadsquaredtheforehead,stretchedthemouth,andleftmarksofhisthumbsandstreaksfromhisfingersintheclay.Buttheeyeshadneverbeenshut.Theywereratherprominent,andratherbloodshot,asiffromstaringandstaring,andwhenhespoketheylookedforaseconddisturbed,butwentonstaring.Anunshadedelectriclighthungaboveherhead.
Asforthebeautyofwomen,itislikethelightonthesea,neverconstanttoasinglewave.Theyallhaveittheyallloseit.Nowsheisdullandthickasbaconnowtransparentasahangingglass.Thefixedfacesarethedullones.HerecomesLadyVenicedisplayedlikeamonumentforadmiration,butcarvedinalabaster,tobesetonthem