. . then you . . . come
here spying. Well, now you're seen what it's like, haven't you? Very
jolly, isn't it? Very handsome? You'd better go away again, then.
You've seen all you've wanted to."
"I'm not going away," repeated Maggie, "I didn't come to spy. You
know that. Of course you can turn me out, but you'll have to use
force."
"Oh, no, I won't," he answered. "There are other ways."
He disappeared into the other room. A moment later he returned; he
was wearing a soft black hat and a shabby grey overcoat.
"You'll get tired of waiting, I expect," he said, and, without
looking at her but just touching her arm as he brushed past her, he
left the room. She heard him descend the stairs. Then the street-
door closed.
She sat down upon the shabby red sofa and looked about her. What a
horrible room! Its darkness was tainted with a creeping coldness
that seemed to steal in wavering gusts from wall to wall. The carpet
was faded to a nondescript colour and was gashed into torn strips
near the fireplace. No pictures were on the walls from which the
wall-paper was peeling. He had done nothing whatever to make it more
habitable.
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