She held out both her hands. 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. “I had found her at last, and she shot me. Why should I peep at it through smoked glass to see things that don’t affect me?” He smiled his delight at his companion. He was continually dramatizing the future, anticipating the singular role he had elected to play. But it is my fault.
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