“You knew it,” he added, in her momentary silence. "The Wastrel seemed to take it all right. ‘It is nothing. ‘A spitfire, ain’t she, sir?’ Roding ignored this. 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. "Oho!" he said. .
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