you said things. Shocking, indecent things. But there wasn't anything she
could say. She didn't know anything.... Yes. She did. There were Connie's
stories. And Black's Lane. Behind the dirty blue palings in Black's Lane.

The nurses comforted her. They said if you kept your mouth tight shut, up
to the last minute before the operation, if you didn't say one word you
were all right.

She thought about it after she woke in the morning. For a whole hour
before the operation she refused to speak, nodding and shaking her head,
communicating by gestures. She walked down the wide corridor of the ward
on her way to the theatre, very upright in her white flannel dressing
gown, with her chin held high and a look of exaltation on her face. There
were convalescents in the corridor. They saw her. The curtains before some
of the cubicles were parted; the patients saw her; they knew what she was
going to. Her exaltation mounted.

She came into the theatre. It was all white. White. White tiles. Rows of
little slender knives on a glass shelf, under glass, shining. A white sink
in the corner. A mixed smell of iodine and ether. The surgeon wore a white
coat. Harriett made her tight lips tighter.

She climbed on to the white enamel table, and lay down, drawing her
dressing gown straight about her knees. She had not said one word.

* * * * *

She had behaved beautifully.