‘I do not know how you think you may help me,’ she said slowly. He was always word-building, a metaphorist, lavish with singing adjectives; but often he built in confusion because it was difficult to describe something beautiful in a new yet simple way. The sergeant had not seen it for he understood nothing of what she told him. Then, if you weren’t looking, he’d get five feet closer. 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. The tears flowed faster.
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