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. “I don’t care,” said Ann Veronica to the darkness; “I’ll fight it. “Do you need me to tell you? You have tasted the luxury of power. Here was no crooked soul; a little weak perhaps, impulsive beyond common, but fundamentally honest. She knew very well that a new thing was stirring in her. It might be supposed that these articles, when thrust together into the bag, would have jingled; but these skilful practitioners managed matters so well that no noise was made.
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