"He must be somewhere hereabouts," cried one of the horsemen, dismounting. “I don’t know,” said Ann Veronica; “I think I am. ‘Is there a resemblance?’ ‘This is Mary Remenham?’ ‘That is my late niece, yes. 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.
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