However this may be now, it was unquestionably true of old Newgate. 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 take more than their blood, John. I'm not interested in him. She posed herself before her mirror and surveyed herself with gravely thoughtful, gravely critical, and yet admiring eyes.
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