It depresses one, you know. The windows of these rooms were obscured with draperies, their floors a carpet patchwork; the china ornaments on their mantels were of a class apart. Capes went first, finding footholds and, where the drops in the strataedges came like long, awkward steps, placing Ann Veronica’s feet. Every man in her life had betrayed her one way or another. “I don’t know whether I shall go on,” said Gwen, a novel note of languorous professionalism creeping into her voice. The halls are on the lookout for something new. I feel beautiful.
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