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"To be always thinking it's themselves as is grouped in the lime-light of another's thoughts!" "You can get away from people, but you can't get away from moths." It was Martha herself, carrying a great paper bag of camphor-balls and a great roll of tarred paper, who announced this truth. Rain was falling in torrents. Even the Poor Boy did not feel like going out.
On the ground floor the windows were made up of many small square panes, several of which had been rudely mended. Through them the interior glimmered darkly. In the foreground stood a broken bottle, shaped like a mortuary urn and half full of pink liquid. Beside it reposed a broken packing-box in which bleary camphor-balls nestled between torn sheets of faded blue paper.
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