 leaning against the frame of the open door. He has finished putting up his umbrellas. He's smoking a cigarette. Sybil looks at him, watches the gentle rise and fall of his chest, the movement of his lips, and slowly her fingers uncurl around the money in the pocket of her coat. The folded notes slip free of her empty hand, and for the second time today, her eyes fill with tears. She knows it is beyond her to ask him that.