The ragged edge. ‘Well she does,’ insisted Miss Froxfield impenitently, and turned to Gerald. 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. . “It has been a delightful evening for me. Wild wishes to keep a man out of the way, he'll speedily find the means to do so. ‘Ah, now I may see what damage Gérard has done to me,’ she muttered, crossing to the table and putting her hand to the sore place at her neck. Ramage pursed his rather loose lips and shrugged his shoulders, with his eyes fixed steadily upon her. ‘Or do I arrest you and have these soldiers march you off to gaol?’ A sweep of his arm indicated the array of military strength on the benches, every eye of which was trained on the little scene being enacted before them. A lean young man in spectacles pursued her for some time, crying “Courage! Courage!” Somebody threw a dab of mud at her, and some of it got down her neck. There was a gentle rustling of skirts. Miss Mary to the life, I said, and so she is.
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