It was as though she were imploring that familiar casual figure that she saw there not to leave her, the only friend she had in a world that was suddenly terrifying and alarming.
Her old black dress that had seemed almost smart for the St.Dreot funeral now appeared most desperately shabby; she knew that her black hat was anything but attractive.
"What do I care for them all!" her heart said defiantly.

"What do they matter to me!" She marched out of the house behind the aunts with her head in the air, very conscious of a hole in one of her thin black gloves.
The street, deserted, danced in the rain; the little bell clanged with the stupid monotony of its one obstinate idea; the town wore its customary Sunday air of a stage when the performance is concluded, the audience vanished and the lights turned down.

The aunts had a solemn air as though they were carrying Maggie as a sacrifice.

All these things were depressing.
They turned out of their own street into a thin, grey one in which the puddles sprang and danced against isolated milk-cans and a desolate pillar-box.

The little bell was now loud and strident, and when they passed into a passage which led into a square, rather grimy yard, Maggie saw that they had arrived.