She drifted back into the welcoming arms of sleep, feeling herself surrounded in silk. “Take my advice,” he said hoarsely. It was time to disappear, no more Becks, no more Spaghetti Nights, no more afternoon kisses in the park with John Diedermayer. 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. She, however, had no idea of doing anything of the sort.
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