Clarke in the dispersing crowd. She might have returned by herself to the elevated station, since her escort did not actually detain her, but she wanted to wait for Mr. Clarke, and see how he was affected by the amazing demonstration of this morning.
She stared at the passersby, driven to wonder in her soul whether she and Mr. Clarke were not caught together in some tremendous mistake, whether it could have been George Baretta, whom she had seen in Adele's flat and had shot at the edge of the ditch.
Never had she claimed that she had recognized Baretta at the ditch; it was only that Mr. Clarke had told her it must have been he. But how could it be, when now she had seen Baretta borne away, in the sight of ten thousand, in a hero's cortège?
She saw Mr. Ellison and, at the next second, Calvin Clarke's face, and her doubt dissolved. She took a step and stood on tiptoes for a glimpse of his shoulder.
Mr. Ellison spoke to her and glanced quickly around. Mr. Clarke merely hastened to her, looking at her.
"You've seen it?" she said to him, senselessly. She knew of course that he had seen it.
"How long have you been here?" he asked her.
"I don't know. I guess half an hour."
"Who came with you?"
"Nobody."
"We'll take you back; get into this car."
"I'm going back by the elevated," she opposed him by an instinct which suddenly governed her; and she realized that, suddenly, she was white and he was very white, as he asked, "Why?"
"I want to," she replied, whereupon he turned from her to Ellison and said, "I'm going back with her."
"I'll take you both," offered Ellison.
"I'm going back by the elevated," repeated Joan Daisy,
