She turned her head slowly; her haggard eyes met his 397 without expression; and he found his tongue with the effort of a man who strives for utterance through a threatening dream:
“We can’t stay here,” he said. The sound of his own voice steadied and cleared his senses. He glanced down at his own attire, blood-stained, and ragged; felt for the loose end of his collar, rebuttoned it, and knotted the draggled white tie with the unconscious indifference of habit.
“What a nightmare!” he muttered to himself. “The world has been turned upside down over night.” He looked up at her: “We can’t stay here,” he repeated. “Where do you live?”
She did not appear to hear him. She had already started to move toward the rue Vilna, where the troopers barring that street still sat their restive horses. They were watching her and her dishevelled companion with the sophisticated amusement of men who, by clean daylight, encounter fagged-out revellers of a riotous night.
Neeland spoke to her again, then followed her and took her arm.
“Where are you going?” he repeated, uneasily.
“I shall give myself up,” she replied in a dull voice.
“To whom?”
“To the Municipals over there.”
“Give yourself up!” he repeated. “Why?”