She found herself mildly entertained by staring at the houses through the rain as she walked home, all cast in a gray blurry film noir gauze of rain. ” She had not, she reflected, remembered how prominent his eyes were. "It's the ordinary's signature, undoubtedly," replied Jack. The thought of their faces, and particularly of her aunt’s, as it would meet the fact— disconcerted, unfriendly, condemning, pained—occurred to her again and again. It was a boy baby cooing in swaddling clothes, a baby who had just been born to the butcher's servant across the alley, the maid Isobella who trailed behind, beaming. "Let us fly from this frightful place. I am not of the canaille, but a bourgeois.
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