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. The two friends contrasted strikingly with each other. " "Oh. Time after time he reminded her of how powerless she would be without him, how unkind the world was towards single women. Then he sat down again in a chair and said that people who wrote novels ought to be strung up.
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