Her little bedsitting-room was like a lair, and she went out from it into this vast, dun world, with its smoke-gray houses, its glaring streets of shops, its dark streets of homes, its orange-lit windows, under skies of dull copper or muddy gray or black, much as an animal goes out to seek food. ‘But only think, Hilary,’ Lucy protested, evidently too involved in her theory to waste time in scolding. I am something of an old fogey, Anna, I’m afraid, but if you treat me like this you will teach me to forget it.
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