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. His quiet, kindly smile implied his serene disbelief in any confessible thing. ’ ‘But it was not your fault,’ protested Gosse, shocked. I don’t want to Bowdlerize Shakespeare. Her husband sat in a chair beside her bed, his head in his hands. A few feet away, across the low vases of pink and white roses, sat Annabel, more beautiful to-night perhaps than ever before in her life. She chose to hold her nose. The one fault, indeed, of this school of fiction for him was that it had rather a light way with parental rights. ‘Prudence? This name I have heard it spoken.
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