CHAPTER XIII. She was beautiful once, Lucia. 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. As she did so the preparation-room door opened behind her. “They’re very good this year,” said Ann Veronica, avoiding controversial matter. For a few moments Mr. She was making it up. ‘You are jealous!’ ‘Yes,’ he agreed simply.
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