She stood
with her back to the wall, storing at him, and every now and again
taking up a corner of her pinafore and biting it. He remembered that
action of hers especially as being absurdly childish. But the
overwhelming impression that he had of her was of her terror--terror of
everything and of everybody, of everybody apparently except himself.
(She told him afterwards that he was the only person in the world who
could have rescued her just then because she simply couldn't be
frightened of some one at whom she'd laughed so often.) She was
terrified, of course, of Grogoff--she couldn't mention his name without
trembling--but she was terrified also of the old servant, of the flat,
of the room, of the clock, of every sound or hint of a sound that there
was in the world. She to be so frightened! She of whom he would have
said that she was equal to any one or anything! What she must have been
through during those weeks to have brought her to this!... But she told
him very little. He urged her at once that she must come away with him,
there and then, just as she was. She simply shook her head at that.
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