"Insult you! not I;" returned Figg. I don’t care what divides us. ‘Oh, I do love a flatterer. Perhaps Ferringhall has pensioned her off. 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. Her white shirt was ridiculously utilitarian, but fitted in all the right places, he smirked. You are an artist by the Divine right of birth, but whatever form of expression may come to you at some time it will not be painting.
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