"Good-b'ye, Jack," said Figg, putting on his hat. “You are very kind,” she said hesitatingly, “but I don’t remember—I don’t think that I know you, do I?” “I am afraid that you do not,” he admitted, with a smile which he meant to be encouraging. But in between these wider phases of comparative confidence were gaps of disconcerting doubt, when the universe was presented as making sinister and threatening faces at her, defying her to defy, preparing a humiliating and shameful overthrow. She had left for ever the cage, the galling leash: she was free. Well, let's beat it to the hotel. Let me make your future for you.
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