The light of a January day was beginning to fade. Anne Stepney had watched the sun set behind the roofs of the houses opposite, leaving a dull yellow glow on the chimneys. She was tired of sitting in the silent room, listening to the crackle of the fire, for more than half an hour her grandfather had been sleeping in his old armchair, and Ana had sat motionless by the window. There was not much to see on the street, although it was in the middle of a big city. By the time the market carts had come and gone, and the butcher and baker had clattered past the houses, the day's traffic was almost over. As for the foot passengers, they were of the non-fashionable class, for the street was not in an aristocratic section of the place.
