Ramage,” she said, clinging to her one point, “I want to get out of this horrible little room. Look! Is that some one coming out?” The front door of the flats stood open, and through it a woman, slim and veiled, passed on to the pavement and turned with swift footsteps in the opposite direction. ‘I am saying so,’ protested Gerald mildly. Pennsylvania Dutch. But out of a belated regard for her father she wrote the surname of some one else. The girl was like some north-country woodland pool, penetrated by a single shaft of sunlight—beautifully clear in one spot and mysteriously obscured elsewhere. She gurgled. 13 Montague Street.
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