We shall be in a patch directly." "Black ?" asked Thyme.
"Dark blue--black farther on." They were passing down a long, grey, curving road, whose narrow houses, hopelessly unpainted, showed marks of grinding poverty.

The Spring wind was ruffling straw and little bits of paper in the gutters; under the bright sunlight a bleak and bitter struggle seemed raging.

Thyme said: "This street gives me a hollow feeling." Martin nodded.

"Worse than the real article.

There's half a mile of this.