May I be permitted, as a very old and very dear friend of your lamented parent, whose loss I shall ever deplore, to ask you one question?" "Undoubtedly," replied Winifred. “My father’s sisters used once to live in the old manor house. 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. Arrived in Paris she remembered that she had not the money for a fiacre. I have always managed to survive, haven’t I?” She was eager to stop talking about her parents.
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