Everywhere I went and rapped at a door I found behind it another dreadful dingy woman—another fallen queen, I suppose— dingier than the last, dirty, you know, in grain. To walk beside him, dressed akin to him, rucksacked and companionable, was bliss in itself; each step she took was like stepping once more across the threshold of heaven. There was a strip of old rose brocade in the making that set an ache in the girl's heart for the want of it. “Don’t be too sure of that,” she answered enigmatically. He stood with his hands in his pockets looking at Miss Klegg’s back. They rose as she approached.
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