’ ‘You traitor, Gerald,’ laughed Lucilla, her yellow curls bouncing under a huge straw bonnet all over flowers. “She has improved her style,” someone declared. She loves you too well for that. 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. Plays Beethoven, Rubenstein and all those chaps. ’ ‘I do not marry a man who makes me a threat like this,’ she flashed. Soho! boys.
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