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. It was an unspoken curfew in the Beck house on week nights. She walked down the station approach, past the neat, obtrusive offices of the coal merchant and the house agent, and so to the wicket-gate by the butcher’s shop that led to the field path to her home. I’m ashamed to confess it, but I didn’t want the charge of you—a too close reminder of my own lost babe. Wood, softening her asperity. It surprised her she hadn’t thought of it before! She tried to explain that she was going to pay him forty pounds without fail next week.
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