She found herself mildly entertained by staring at the houses through the rain as she walked home, all cast in a gray blurry film noir gauze of rain. She had been built for canvas and oil-lamps, and this new thingumajig that kept her nose snoring at eight knots when normally she was able to boil along at ten, and these unblinking things they called lamps (that neither smoked nor smelled), irked and threatened to ruin her temper. ‘I thought, you see, that we might as well enter by the same way our intruder had done. Her soul was full of the sense of disaster. Immediately a feathered hat emerged, under which a familiar countenance was visible.
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