the courtroom but that's only a pretence, that job's no more than what I'm supposed to do, it's what my husband gets paid for.

Nice stockings, they are, look,” - she stretched out her leg, drew her skirt up to her knee and looked, herself, at the stocking - “they are nice stockings, but they're too good for me, really.”

She suddenly interrupted herself and lay her hand on K.'s as if she wanted to calm him down, and whispered, “Be quiet, Berthold is watching us.” K. slowly looked up. In the doorway to the courtroom stood a young man, he was short, his legs were not quite straight, and he continually moved his finger round in a short, thin, red beard with which he hoped to make himself look dignified. K. looked at him with some curiosity, he was the first