He bowed his head as a criminal sometimes does when sentenced. He
had no protest to make. A cheap skate was what he was. He sat there
crushed. Skirting round him as if he were defiled, she went out into
the little entry.
He was still sitting crushed when she came back. She did not pause.
She merely flung his hat on the table as she went by. It was a cheap
skate's hat, a brown soft felt, shapeless, weather-stained, three years
out of style. With no further words, she opened the door into the
adjoining room, passed through it, and closed it noiselessly behind
her.