She’s a snob. 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. ‘I escape from a fate entirely misérable, you understand. She was tired, hungry—and thus somewhat impatient for the food Mrs Ibstock might bring—and downcast. Clarice rubbed her belly, singing songs to the unborn baby. Without her, it was lonely. ” “All right! And I never dreamed anything of the sort was going on.
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