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. Here was the corner-stone of a capital story; but he knew that Howard Spurlock would never write it. Jack had got into one of the pens at the north side of the chapel. She felt a lump rise in her throat, for she had come to love living in America. I will not be sent away.
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