"I cannot sign it," returned Trenchard. 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. "Where am I to take it to?" asked Sheppard. Rage flooded her at his intent, but she controlled it. The clock struck half-past ten. It was now a quarter past twelve. " "You won't tell me what he has done?" "If you'll tell me where he's heading. It was Ennison, who loomed up through the shadows. There were neither texts nor rubbish on the walls, but only a stirring version of Belshazzar’s feast, a steel engraving in the early Victorian manner that had some satisfactory blacks. For awhile he watched the revolving light on Copeley's.
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