“How shall I put the question? What am I? What have I got to do with myself?. ” She spoke rather quickly, because she found her father’s question the most awkward she had ever had to answer in her life. This light did not remain stationary, but could be seen at one moment glimmering through the rents in the roof, and at another shining through the cracks in the wall, or the broken panes of the casement. Perhaps Ramage was the more astonished. The London backgrounds, in Bloomsbury and Marylebone, against which these people went to and fro, took on, by reason of their gray facades, their implacably respectable windows and window-blinds, their reiterated unmeaning iron railings, a stronger and stronger suggestion of the flavor of her father at his most obdurate phase, and of all that she felt herself fighting against. They are blinded to all fine and subtle things —they look at life with bloodshot eyes and dilated nostrils.
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