As Hawker again entered the room of the great windows he glanced in sidelong bitterness at the chandelier.

When he was seated he looked at it in open defiance and hatred.
Men in the street were shovelling at the snow.

The noise of their instruments scraping on the stones came plainly to Hawker's ears in a harsh chorus, and this sound at this time was perhaps to him a _miserere_.
"I came to tell you," he began, "I came to tell you that perhaps I am going away." "Going away!" she cried.

"Where ?" "Well, I don't know--quite.

You see, I am rather indefinite as yet.