She closed the book that she had been pretending to read and gathered her black umbrella and her backpack, a childish accoutrement she despised. They’re all wonderful cooks. 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. Ann Veronica said nothing. You were wide the mark, physically; otherwise you had him pat.
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