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. Don't be frightened of her. To be exact, it was just sixteen hours and twenty minutes. You don’t wear a dinner coat with a flower in your button-hole, or last night’s shirt, or very glossy boots, nor do you haunt the drawing-room in the evening, or play at being musical. There are way-stations—even terminals. They don’t know who did it, actually. You seem altogether altered, too. I’ll show it to you later. "No, Sir, it's quite possible—more than possible. As matters now stand, I'm only a thief, not a blackguard.
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