The dress came to her only too manifestly unwashed from its former wearer; even the under-linen they gave her seemed unclean. At last, a little way to the northward of Euston Road, the moral cloud seemed to lift, the moral atmosphere to change; clean blinds appeared in the windows, clean doorsteps before the doors, a different appeal in the neatly placed cards bearing the word ————————————— | APARTMENTS ————————————— | in the clear bright windows. “Beautiful these autumn flowers are,” said Ann Veronica, in a wide, uncomfortable pause. A disconcerting gray eye that had a mystifying depth. She had heard of women journalists, women writers, and so forth; but she was not even admitted to the presence of the editors she demanded to see, and by no means sure that if she had been she could have done any work they might have given her. It was perfectly legitimate. The voices went into his ears but left no impression of their import. The sun was setting in spectacular multicolored streams beyond Whitefield Park.
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