Something in his tone pinched her heart. “It is the same man, Annabel,” she said. He was no longer in military uniform, and it was evident from his suit of brown brocade that he had been disturbed while preparing for an evening engagement. “I suppose Paris is very, very distracting. She could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story. 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’m not half smart enough for the West End. I wrote three letters yesterday and tore them up.
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