I’d rather die than hear any more fairytales. In Wych Street Owen Wood did dwell; A carpenter he was by trade, And money, I believe, he made. 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. Poor Ruth: for a father, a madman; for a husband—a thief! Spurlock rocked his body slightly. To disillusion her, forthwith. I have an engagement with a theatrical agent—I believe for the ‘Unusual’. The hand which the man had been holding hung limp and nerveless at her side.
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