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. Its shouting now did in some occult manner convey a protest that Mr. You don’t want to look like Bozo. I begin to understand Jane Austen and chintz covers and decency and refinement and all the rest of it. That was odd: when young people were joyous, they had to express it physically. Perhaps she did love research for its own sake, she was certainly gifted enough. She rested for a half hour in heaven on earth, feeling herself drift in and out of sleep. ” He said.
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