He stood transfixed. He found the door ajar, and, to his surprise, perceived little Winifred seated at a table, busily engaged in tracing some design upon a sheet of paper. “I am a fool,” he said. In any event, I explained that no one lived here and that we’d been called in because of suspected intruders. Her roving eagerness was at all times shaded with shyness, reserve, repression. She went about in a negligent November London that had become very dark and foggy and greasy and forbidding indeed, and tried to find that modest but independent employment she had so rashly assumed. Martin's Le Grand.
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