" "Hold your tongue, hussy!" cried her husband gruffly. . Even the abstract paintings on the wall were gray. Beethoven; he’s the best of them. "All right," replied Sheppard, with affected indifference. Manning; and added, “the twenty-ninth. 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. All her life Martha had been there. She was poor. She had been obliged to spend the night in that fateful bedchamber, the faithful Kimble—who had foraged at a nearby inn, bringing back a large pie and a jug of porter for his mistress—guarding the door outside.
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