The female’s words caught at his attention, and he no longer heard what the young Poussaint girl was saying to him. 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. Ruth hugged the envelope and McClintock, with the end of a burnt match, drew a cabalistic sign. He savored the last solo, the coda.
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