He’s a prig to the finger-tips, is Sir John—doesn’t know what an artist is. The service had not proceeded far, when she was greatly disturbed by the entrance of a person who placed himself opposite her, and sought to attract her attention by a number of little arts, surveying her, as he did so, with a very impudent and offensive stare. She uncrossed her legs and lowered herself, carefully and slowly, until she lay supine. “It has been a delightful evening for me. What beasts men are! I cannot typewrite, my three stories are still wandering round, two milliners have refused me as a lay figure because business was so bad. He seemed to be about to move toward her. To wait for hours and hours for the night! The sea empty for days! You forgot the monotony, the endless monotony, that bends you and breaks you and crushes you—you forgot that!" Her voice had steadily risen until it was charged with passionate anger. So far she had not heard the sound of his voice.
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