Them young prigs is all alike. Doubts began to rise up all about her, plucking at her confidence. 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. ‘What do you mean?’ ‘You have papers of identity, for the Mother Abbess told me so. He recognized me at once, and he behaved like a madman. Who is the other?” “What other?” Her voice seemed to come from a long way off.
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