Still—” Then, with incredible and obviously deliberate stupidity, and a voice as flat as her own, he asked, “Who is the man?” Her spirit raged within her at the dumbness, the paralysis that had fallen upon her. They always get back together. She had always had a wonderful ear for phrasing, even back in the days of the viol. It grew clear to her that throughout all her wild raid for independence she had done nothing for anybody, and many people had done things for her. 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. I thank God for the beauty you love and the faults you love. Ireton and his friends to taste it.
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