The mother was far more real to her than the father; the ghostly far more substantial than the living form. He regretted now that in his idle hours he hadn't hunted up one against the rainy day. 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. He won’t have menservants inside the house, and his collection of carriages is only fit for a museum—where most of his friends ought to be, by-the-bye. "And Jack?" "Gone too," sobbed his daughter. "Mother!" cried the son, "help!" "What is this?" shrieked Lady Trafford, raising herself on the couch, and extending her hands towards him. Just because I attempt to seek the worst of men to kill, it doesn’t make it right.
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