An old four-wheeler was moored in the gutter by the entrance, the horse munching in the depths of a nose-bag, the elderly driver reclining against the side of the cab, smoking and watching the pavement artist.
Sisily entered the empty square to rest herself.

As she sat there on one of the wooden seats the full misery of her situation came home to her, and she asked herself anxiously what she was to do.

She had nowhere to go, and no money to buy food or shelter--nothing in the world that she could call her own except the clothes she was wearing.

They were the coat and skirt she had put on to come to London, and she noticed with feminine concern that the dark cloth showed disreputable stains and splashes of her night's exposure.

Hastily she took her handkerchief from her pocket to remove the tell-tale marks.