‘Ask him. I'm a slave to my word. 135 < 17 > OWNER OF A LONELY HEART School wrapped for the season: days grew longer. In her little sitting-room she turned on the electric light and looked around half fearfully. Ann Veronica was one of the few young people—and one must have young people just as one must have flowers—one could ask to a little gathering without the risk of a painful discord. 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.
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