She was aware of people—her aunt, her father, her fellow-students, friends, and neighbors— moving about outside this glowing secret, very much as an actor is aware of the dim audience beyond the barrier of the footlights. The Father did not know of course about her connection with the Valades. She lit the cigarette with a tiny Kelly green drugstore lighter. They sat face to face beneath an experienced-looking rucksack and a brand new portmanteau and a leather handbag, in the afternoon-boat train that goes from Charing Cross to Folkestone for Boulogne. And they never talked of anything at all, never discussed, never even encouraged gossip. She could not run, her limbs were frozen. “A most wonderful likeness, too. On a stool eight feet high sat a small boy in a faded blue cotton, his face like that of young Buddha. She had never before heard the noise of firecrackers, and in the beginning the sputtering racket caused her to wince. It seems to me very silly. ‘Your niece, ma’am. ‘Knowed it the instant I set eyes on her. He bent over to Anna at once.
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