“It is a night of endings,” she murmured to herself. 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. Racing, he reached it perhaps a moment or two later. And instead of accepting the situation gratefully, he felt vaguely hurt! One evening in September a proa rasped in upon the beach. "Is Thames returned from London?" "Not yet," replied the other; "but I expect him every minute.
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