What is it?" "Guess," rejoined Blueskin, attempting to throw a gallant expression into his forbidding countenance. "Sir Rowland is your uncle—he will be your guardian—he will protect you. Her little bedsitting-room was like a lair, and she went out from it into this vast, dun world, with its smoke-gray houses, its glaring streets of shops, its dark streets of homes, its orange-lit windows, under skies of dull copper or muddy gray or black, much as an animal goes out to seek food. It must have been impossible to see me through that much rain.
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