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. . His salvation—if there was to be any—lay in her ignorance of life. There was a strained, eager expression on his face. She found a clean sweatshirt and soft pajama pants, glad to trade the wet for the dry. “Here’s something rather good,” he said, and with a start and an effort she took his place at the microscope, while he stood beside her and almost leaning over her. She was young and bright, little to no make-up except for lip-gloss, long, straight, glossy reddish blonde hair slightly past her shoulders. There was a lot of that, John, a great deal of hunger. So long as he lived, Spurlock knew that in fancy he would be reconstructing that scene between himself and Ruth's father.
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