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. ‘Champion?’ ‘The lad you saw following her. Every so often a wall of water, thin and jadecoloured, would rise up over the port bow, hesitate, and fall smacking amidships. It’s a sort of home-leaving instinct. It was of no use, she let him do it as she could not be strangled. “It was my sister Anna. Take, if you please, your own pistol.
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