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. “It is a night of endings,” she murmured to herself. “But why is it preposterous?” asked Ann Veronica, and fiddled with a pipe on the mantel. She wanted air—and the distraction of having moving and changing things about her.
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