She spent the morning up to ten in writing a series of unsuccessful letters to Ramage, which she tore up unfinished; and finally she desisted and put on her jacket and went out into the lamp-lit obscurity and slimy streets. There is no future for me here. I deemed it more prudent to send him to the Dark House than to bring him here, in case of any search after him by his adoptive father—the carpenter Wood. Her situation was perplexing her very much, and the Widgett atmosphere was lax and sympathetic, and provocative of discussion. I had to go at a moment’s notice. Do you think that I am utterly selfish?” She raised her eyebrows. "Suppose we go and have tea? I'd like to take you to a teahouse I know, but we'll go to the Victoria instead.
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