(…) and the man who is reading half a page of Lothair at the book-stall muses charitably, with his eyes off the print, and the girl hesitates at the crossing and turns to him the bright yet vague glance of the young.
Bright yet vague. She is perhaps twenty-two. She is shabby. She crosses the road and looks at the daffodils and the red tulips in the florist’s window. She hesitates, and makes off in the direction of Temple Bar. She walks fast, and yet anything distracts her. Now she seems to see, and now to notice nothing.