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Ennison, who had been standing with his back to the window, came suddenly a little further into the room. Almost light-heartedly. For a time she looked at no more apartments, and walked through gaunt and ill-cleaned streets, through the sordid under side of life, perplexed and troubled, ashamed of her previous obtuseness. He still wore his hat, to show that the days of miracles and Christ being civil to sinners are over forever. Neither he nor Gerald chose to attire themselves in full military rig on fashionable occasions such as this. “You are Sir John Ferringhall,” she repeated. Wood resounded from below.
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