For her mother to betray her seemed inevitable, but the betrayal seemed worse than her fate. She had followed a bobbing white hat and gray jacket until she reached the Euston Road corner of Tottenham Court Road, and there, by the name on a bus and the cries of a conductor, she made a guess of her way. She fought a compulsive urge to yank his shirt free. No sterner head was ever beheld beneath the cowl of a monk, or the bonnet of an inquisitor.
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