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. “Is this true, Annabel? Is he dead?” She nodded. Why he paid so much attention to Sir James Thornhill may be explained anon. “Oh, Veronica!” she said, “to leave your home!” She had been weeping. It was a gracious gesture, she thought, as he trudged to the Beck’s humble doorstep in his stiff blue polyester uniform. "I guessed as much.
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