Here was no crooked soul; a little weak perhaps, impulsive beyond common, but fundamentally honest. She possessed what he affected to despise, but secretly worshipped—the innate charm of breeding. She spent the morning up to ten in writing a series of unsuccessful letters to Ramage, which she tore up unfinished; and finally she desisted and put on her jacket and went out into the lamp-lit obscurity and slimy streets. I wonder why on earth the curtains are drawn. He was ruffled, and his ears were red, no doubt from some adjacent controversy. Keeping to the shadow of the house, he crept forward until he could see better without, he hoped, being seen.
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