Raven locks fell to her shoulders from under the feathered beaver hat, and curled away down her back. Lucy? Come 177 on out. Her thoughts were deflected from Vivie Warren by the peculiar behavior of a middle-aged gentleman in Piccadilly. This farewell had been particularly distasteful to him. Such names shone brightly in the darkness, with black spaces of unilluminated emptiness about them, as stars shine in the night; but now—now it was different; now it was dawn—the real dawn. The door was opened for her by a weary-looking youth in a striped jacket several sizes too large for him.
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