“I don’t think she will,” she said. "Jack!" Her son averted his gaze. 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. Her mind invoked her husband, who she imagined lying dead in a ditch somewhere, tortured and killed by brigands or perhaps eaten by creatures like herself, a fate he actually deserved. ” John looked at her sympathetically. With all your cunning, we're more than a match for you. They pressed more insistently, forcing her lips open.
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