contemporary abstract painting

As she came within sight of home, her spirit suddenly lightened. The narrow, drab-coloured little house, flanked each side by others exactly like it in every single particular, save that their front yards were not so well kept, looked as if it could, aye, and would, keep any secret closely hidden.
For a moment, at any rate, The Avenger's victims receded from her mind. She thought of them no more. All her thoughts were concentrated on Bunting - Bunting and Mr. Sleuth. She wondered what had happened during her absence - whether the lodger had rung his bell, and, if so, how he had got on with Bunting, and Bunting with him?
She walked up the little flagged path wearily, and yet with a pleasant feeling of home-coming. And then she saw that Bunting must have been watching for her behind the now closely drawn curtains, for before she could either knock or ring he had opened the door.
"I was getting quite anxious about you," he exclaimed. "Come in, Ellen, quick! You must be fair perished a day like now - and you out so little as you are. Well? I hope you found the doctor all right?" He looked at her with affectionate anxiety.