’ ‘Damn you, I should have beaten you,’ Gerald swore, holding fast to his corner of the little square of linen. They could no longer stay in one place. It seemed to her that it was her duty to get up and clamor to go home to her room, to protest against his advances as an insult. Fifty in advance. 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. Probably he has something to say and can't say it, or he writes well about nothing.
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