you just see their faces and

You see, I played there when I was small. Spring is good, but it'sbest in the autumn when the deer are barking; then it gets dusky,and I go back through the streets, and you can't see people properly;they come past very quick, you just see their faces and thenthey're gone--that's what I like--and no one knows in the least whatyou're doing--""But you have to be back for tea, I suppose?" Hewet checked her. 　　"Tea? Oh yes. Five o'clock. Then I say what I've done, and myaunts say what they've done, and perhaps some one comes in: 　　Mrs. Hunt, let's suppose. She's an old lady with a lame leg. 　　She has or she once had eight children; so we ask after them. 　　They're all over the world; so we ask where they are, and sometimesthey're ill, or they're stationed in a cholera district, or insome place where it only rains once in five months. Mrs. Hunt,"she said with a smile, "had a son who was hugged to death bya bear."Here she stopped and looked at Hewet to see whether he was amusedby the same things that amused her. She was reassured. But shethought it necessary to apologise again; she had been talking too much. 　　"You can't conceive how it interests me," he said. 　　Indeed, his cigarette had gone out, and he had to light another. 　　"Why does it interest you?" she asked. 　　"Partly because you're a woman," he replied. When he said this,Rachel, who had become oblivious of anything, and had reverted to achildlike state of interest and pleasure, lost her freedom and becameself-conscious. She felt herself at once singular and under observation,as she felt with St. John Hirst. She was about to launch into an argumentwhich would have made them both feel bitterly against each other,and to define sensations which had no such importance as wordswere bound to give them when Hewet led her thoughts in a different direction. 　　"I've often walked along the streets where people live all in a row,and one house is exactly like another house, and wondered what onearth the women were doing inside," he said. "Just consider: 　　it's the beginning of the twentieth century, and until a few yearsago no woman had ever come out by herself and said things at all. 　　There it was going on in the background, for all those thousandsof years, this curious silent unrepresented life. Of course we'realways writing about women--abusing them, or jeering at them,or worshipping them; but it's never come from women themselves.