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. “Only four spoonsful left,” she declared briskly, “and your turn to buy the next pound, Sydney. Predictably, Charvill turned on him. She had looked forward to an explanation.
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