A timid man crosses town to the extremity where lay the best pastry-shops, all the while both feeling the thickness of the pieces of money in his pocket (which he does partly to check over and over the sum he has, and partly to guard against anything jumping out) and also occupying himself with the choice that faces him between a cream slice and a raspberry tart. When he gets to the place, there he finds the shop not yet open and before the door an elderly woman who is waiting. He stands before the shop-window, hands clasped before him. The elderly woman rounds on him saying: "Don't you think you can take that slice of flan; just you try; I can tackle the likes of you easily; I was here first and we're going to form a queue here you know . . ." He is amazed. No thought of flan has entered his head; it is the raspberry tart that has been occupying him. He looks abstractedly into the shop-window and now sees a round apricot and cherry flan, cut up into segments, and yes, only now does he notice how one of the segments has been cut larger than the rest, probably (so he reasons) to entice possible clients who would otherwise pass.
"You!" grumbles the elderly woman. They wait in silence until the door is unbolted, at which point the woman strikes sideways at his leg, catching it awkwardly and bringing him to his knees with a soft grunt. She brings her fists which are clasped together, down upon his left shoulder which sinks, then down upon the right shoulder to even the balance, until she has him, striking repeatedly with one foot now (her strongest one) stamping without any mercy until she forms him into a mere plug of matter beneath her shoe.
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