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Part 4 But presently, as she sat on the one antimacassared red silk chair and surveyed her hold-all and bag in that tidy, rather vacant, and dehumanized apartment, with its empty wardrobe and desert toilet-table and pictureless walls and stereotyped furnishings, a sudden blankness came upon her as though she didn’t matter, and had been thrust away into this impersonal corner, she and her gear. “That’s all very well when one isn’t the material experimented upon,” Ann Veronica had remarked. It runs about gayly, it romps, it is bright and pretty, it has enormous quantities of soft hair and more power of expressing affection than its brothers. But it’s only now I’m able to do it. But there's a person in the hall—a very odd sort of man—waiting to see him, who won't be sent away. “I heard the clock strike as I crossed the square,” she answered.
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