She was aware of him—a silk-hatted, shiny-black figure on the opposite side of the Avenue; and then, abruptly and startlingly, he crossed the road and saluted and spoke to her. She could still remember herself at age five, staring knives and daggers at the men who came into the small yarn shop, under pretense of business but really just to leer. That is I saw her. She was tired, hungry—and thus somewhat impatient for the food Mrs Ibstock might bring—and downcast. The Iron Bar. ’ A wary look came over her face, and Roding intervened.
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