On one side of the large central hall is a dark pavilion lighted by clerestories. In it is an island of ticket-windows. Above this soared far up the sandstone canopy, with light criss-crossing as in a cathedral and pigeons flying about thirty feet above ground; and the shadows of people passing in the sunlit tram terminal. The hall is in shadow cut by the light of four entrances. Near the arch which leads to the train indicator for the northern lines, Teresa had been walking, much agitated, about twenty minutes, when she heard a voice from the ticket-windows and saw one of the clerks, a light-faced young man with reddish hair, leaning forward to look at her and beckoning to his friend. At this she picked up her little bag and walked rapidly to the Newcastle ticket-window, where she could get her ticket. “What do they think? That I am going to commit suicide? It’s queer how you give yourself away, in any case.” She walked out of the other door and to the platform gate with a busy air, and after a few minutes was admitted with the others to the waiting train.
