She was quite tired of the stream of visitors and heard with relief the words of her newfound great-aunt, addressed to her son’s butler. At first she could not tell what it was; but as her eyes became accustomed to the light, she recognized the old coat. The time was the 26th of November, 1703: the place, the Mint in Southwark. 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. "Quilt!—Mendez!—Where are you?" vociferated Wild, sounding his whistle for the third time. At the eastern gate of the churchyard stood the carriage with the steps lowered. ” “I don’t see why I shouldn’t.
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