Paris, always beautiful even in the darkness, glittered away to the horizon. “I wonder,” she said, “why one writes him sentences like that? It’ll have to go,” she decided, “I’ve written too many already. They went on talking in the train—it seemed to her father a slight want of deference to him—and he listened and pretended to read the Times. In her little sitting-room she turned on the electric light and looked around half fearfully. “It isn’t anything to do with our times particularly. The stain was blood, but this was a stain that resulted from being up one’s elbows in blood! She smiled a nurse’s knowing smile.
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