n?
Evelyn was tormented by the little spark of life in her which was always
trying to work through to other people, and was always being rebuffed.
Falling silent she looked at her visitor, her shoes, her stockings, the
combs in her hair, all the details of her dress in short, as though by
seizing every detail she might get closer to the life within.

Rachel at last put down the photographs, walked to the window and
remarked, "It's odd. People talk as much about love as they do about
religion."

"I wish you'd sit down and talk," said Evelyn impatiently.

Instead Rachel opened the window, which was made in two long panes, and
looked down into the garden below.

"That's where we got lost the first night," she said. "It must have been
in those bushes."

"They kill hens down there," said Evelyn. "They cut their heads off with
a knife--disgusting! But tell me--what--"

"I'd like to explore the hotel," Rachel interrupted. She drew her head
in and looked at Evelyn, who still sat on the floor.

"It's just like other hotels," said Evelyn.

That might be, although every room and passage and chair in the place
had a character of its own in Rachel's eyes; but she could not bring
herself to stay in one place any longer. She moved slowly towards the
door.

"What is it you want?" said Evelyn. "You make me feel as if you were
always thinking of something you don't say. . . . Do say it!"

But Rachel made no response to this invitation either. She stopped with
her fingers on the handle of the door, as if she remembered that some
sort of pronouncement was due from her.

"I suppose you'll marry one of them," she said, and then turned the
handle and shut the door behind her. She walked slowly down the passage,
running her hand along the wall beside her. She did not think which way
she was going, and therefore walked down a passage which only led to a
window and a balcony. She looked down at the kitchen premises, the wrong
side of the hotel life, which was cut off from the right side by a maze
of small bushes. The ground was bare, old tins were scattered about, and
the bushes wore towels and aprons upon their heads to dry. Every now and
then a waiter came out in a white apron and threw rubbish on to a
heap. Two large women in cotton dresses were sitting on a bench with
blood-smeared tin trays in front of them and yellow bodies across
their knees. They were plucking the birds, and talking as they plucked.
Suddenly a chicken came