I sha'n't cry any more. “Let go!” she gasped at him, a blaze of anger. The smell assaulted them even before they entered the restaurant, greasy and savory. The London backgrounds, in Bloomsbury and Marylebone, against which these people went to and fro, took on, by reason of their gray facades, their implacably respectable windows and window-blinds, their reiterated unmeaning iron railings, a stronger and stronger suggestion of the flavor of her father at his most obdurate phase, and of all that she felt herself fighting against. Wanted a clean sweep for elbowroom.
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