You wind in and out and here and there, in the most mysterious way, and have no more idea of the points of the compass than if you were a blind man.

You can never persuade yourself that these are actually streets, and the frowning, dingy, monstrous houses dwellings, till you see one of these beautiful, prettily dressed women emerge from them--see her emerge from a dark, dreary-looking den that looks dungeon all over, from the ground away halfway up to heaven.

And then you wonder that such a charming moth could come from such a forbidding shell as that.

The streets are wisely made narrow and the houses heavy and thick and stony, in order that the people may be cool in this roasting climate.

And they are cool, and stay so.