She found herself again in the presence of some element in life about which she had been trained not to think, about which she was perhaps instinctively indisposed to think; something which jarred, in spite of all her mental resistance, with all her preconceptions of a clean and courageous girl walking out from Morningside Park as one walks out of a cell into a free and spacious world. She calls him a pig, and she says he ain’t Valade. She counted three on the way to the train and four more on the crowded car that would have gladly taken him to bed with not so much as a word. Of course, it was ridiculous, this inclination to assist the fugitive, based as it was upon an intangible university idea. That there gatekeeper would’ve called them out again.
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