“I can sing the songs ‘Alcide’ sang, and in the same style. 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. ‘But do you think I can blame you for this, Marthe?’ ‘I blame myself. Perhaps it had been pick-pocketed or jostled from her dress in a hunt.
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