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Passing down the streets of Croydon twenty years ago, the violet loops of ribbon in the draper's window spangled in the electric light catch her eye. She lingers past six. Still by running she can reach home. She pushes through the glass swing door. It's sale-time. Shallow trays brim with ribbons.
She's a pretty kid," she added, as if the admission had been wrung from her. "She's not been here?" said Ransome. "Hasn't she! She was here all morning and all day yesterday, and pretty nearly every day last week." "But how did she get off? Why it's sale-time!" "She's chucked them." "What's she done that for?" "You'd better ask her." His instinct told him that he would do well to let it pass.
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