I can no longer bear to address you by that formal madame. 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. ‘You have every right to be angry with me. ‘Possibly,’ he said. She turned on the lad with her, who was visibly relieved. He laughed reassuringly. One glance swept across the place and it was immediately apparent that Pottiswick had not, this time, been mistaken. White’s boarding-house in Russell Square.
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