The bridge was open. People had started filling the hall: instrumentalists, overly conscientious parents. Anna followed her finger, and looked back into her sister’s face. The scanty furniture of the rooms corresponded with their dungeon-like aspect. Hartford, Connecticut; she had registered that address; but there was something so mystifyingly Oriental about her that the address only thickened the haze behind which she moved. Her sleepless night had left her languid but not stupefied, and for an hour or so the work distracted her altogether from her troubles. White is proud of her drawing-room evenings. The study seemed absolutely unaltered, there was still the same lamp with a little chip out of the shade, still the same gas fire, still the same bundle of blue and white papers, it seemed, with the same pink tape about them, at the elbow of the arm-chair, still the same father.
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