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. “Suppose I chuck it,” she remarked, standing with the mauve slip in her hand —“suppose I chuck it, and surrender and go home! Perhaps, after all, Roddy was right! “Father keeps opening the door and shutting it, but a time will come— “I could still go home!” She held Ramage’s check as if to tear it across. ‘What, is Nicholas dead?’ He saw the two of them exchange glances and an instinct of danger rose up. The stench is everywhere. The door was closed— locked,—and the pair were heard descending the stairs. The Becks as a 187 family didn’t talk or ruminate over Mike’s or Lucy’s past much. She decided to go out into the London afternoon again and get something to eat in an Aerated Bread shop or some such place, and perhaps find a cheap room for herself. Then he understood. Lucy sized up the girl. Nothing could occupy her attention long today, unless it concerned her situation. That would not help her. The sun-canvas was stowed; and Spurlock's chair was set forward the foremast, where the bulging jib cast a sliding blue shadow over him. “I’ve been to hear you lots of times.
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