K - Mary Roberts Rinehart - Bog

The Street stretched away north and south in two lines of ancient houses that seemed to meet in the distance. The man found it infinitely inviting. It had the well-worn look of an old coat, shabby but comfortable. The thought of coming there to live pleased him. Surely here would be peace- long evenings in which to read, quiet nights in which to sleep and forget. It was an impression of home, really, that it gave. The man did not know that, or care particularly. He had been wandering about a long time- not in years, for he was less than thirty. But it seemed a very long time. At the little house no one had seemed to think about references. He could have given one or two, of a sort.