I suppose that’s the gist of the whole thing. 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. ” Ennison dropped the evening paper which he had been pretending to read. It reminded her of one of the old tales her mother Marina had told her about a sculptor named Farhat. “This is all rot!” he declared angrily. “I wonder if it is. He cocked an eyebrow.
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