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. Everything was fresh and bright, from the kindly manners of the Frutigen cobbler, who hammered mountain nails into her boots, to the unfamiliar wild flowers that spangled the wayside. We stopped for a moment to watch it, and almost immediately it was turned out. ’ ‘How could he when he didn’t even handle it himself? Went off, I told you, and left it all to me. She had had to do away with many a leering foster father since she had started frequenting foster homes in the middle of the century.
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