One puts gloves on one’s greedy fingers. We have to hang about in the interval. "Vot are you?" "Practising patience," growled Abraham. 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. Wood, by whom it was formerly occupied. She, however, had no idea of doing anything of the sort.
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