She passed down the stairs and into the street. His diminutive hand flew out from behind his back like a wounded bird. The address was of course her destination, thousands of miles away, an infinitesimal spot in a terrifying space. There were sidetables and a writing table, similarly buried in bric-a-brac, and the chair by the French doors could hardly be seen for blankets. There were one or two bitter moments in his life when he had been made to feel that gentility laid on with a brush may sometimes crack and show weak places—that deportment and breeding are after all things apart. She handled it half fearfully, and set it carefully down again.
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