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. . Something in her lack of embarrassment irritated him. Three times he uttered a phrase: "A djinn in a blue-serge coat!" And each time he would follow it with a chuckle—the chuckle of a soul in damnation. She tried to appear as if she had never been questioned before. What of that?" "Vot 'o that!" echoed Sharples, peevishly: "Everythin'.
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