"As you are."
She looked at me a while again, and then she said, in a little reasoning voice that reminded me of her mother's, only that it was conscious and studied, "I was not aware that I am under any particular obligation to please you!" And then she gave a clear laugh, quite at variance with her voice.
"Oh, there is no obligation," I said, "but one has preferences. I am very sorry you are going away."
"What does it matter to you? You are going yourself."
"As I am going in a different direction, that makes all the greater separation."
She answered nothing; she stood looking through the bars of the tall gate at the empty, dusky street. "This grille is like a cage," she said at last.
"Fortunately, it is a cage that will open." And I laid my hand on the lock.
"Don't open it," and she pressed the gate back. "If you should open it I would go out and never return."
"Where should you go?"
"To America."
