The lamps of Soho made large greasy spots of light upon the pavement.

The by-streets were dark enough to shelter man or woman leaning against the doorways.

One detached herself as Jacob and Florinda approached.
"She's dropped her glove," said Florinda.
Jacob, pressing forward, gave it her.
Effusively she thanked him; retraced her steps; dropped her glove again.
But why?
For whom?
Meanwhile, where had the other woman got to?
And the man?
The street lamps do not carry far enough to tell us.

The voices, angry, lustful, despairing, passionate, were scarcely more than the voices of caged beasts at night.

Only they are not caged, nor beasts.