Wild never was the associate of thieves. 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. Sir John followed her gaze, and also saw them. Wood fared still worse. On the mantelpiece in front of her was a note addressed to her in Annabel’s handwriting. Occasionally the flames would bend, twist and writhe crazily as the punka-boy bestirred himself. But he would make it a point not to speak again to the girl. Rubbishy novels and pernicious rascals. "Dead!" echoed the boy. The houses were older, the shops gloomier, and the thoroughfare narrower, it is true; but the bustle, the crowd, the street-like air was the same.
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