Then began expostulations, preluded by a telegram and headed by her aunt. And when she went to sleep, then always Capes became the novel and wonderful guest of her dreams. 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. "Och! he's a broth of a boy!" "Why, I thought he'd broken your head, Terry?" "Phooh! that's nothing? A piece o' plaster'll set all to rights; and Terry O'Flaherty's not the boy to care for the stroke of a supple-jack. And he who opposes me in it shall feel the weight of my hand. He has given orders that no one is to disturb him.
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