"Your faults were the faults of circumstances. “Oh my God! You sounded like my Grandma just now! How did you do that?” He asked, shocked. “Queer letters he writes,” she said. He depended upon her, for his medicine, for his drink, for the little amusement it was now permissible to give him. 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. The truth at once flashed across his mind. Wood in very characteristic attitudes, occupied a prominent place on the walls. Her momentary instinct was to run to him and be comforted, like the old times.
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