With a gesture which was without any kind of emotional expression, the manager indicated the silent crumpled figure on the floor and gave the room number. An enormous poster almost covered one side of the wall—the poster. He had assumed that her leaving home was the point at issue, that everything turned on that, and that the sole alternative was obedience, and she had fallen in with that assumption until rebellion seemed a sacred principle. She changed her mind that day, as her mother Marina had predicted. Rain pounded the tin roof, and waterfalls obscured the pavilion into its own private 91 chamber. Neither of them joined in the applause which followed upon her exit.
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