As he passed up the staircase now he looked at the walls, distempered a dirty pink.

Outside Mary's door they were adorned by the effusions of amateur artists, the children of the working women, messenger boys, casual urchins, with the desire of their kind for scribbling.

It was all quite unlovely, yet it had made him happy to come there.

It was a happiness that he had had no right to and now it must be relinquished.

This was the last time he should come after this intimate fashion.
He turned the handle of the door and went in, rather dreading to find Mary engaged with other visitors; but she was alone.