She had a feeling at his departure as of an immense cavity, of something enormously gone; she could not tell whether it was infinite regret or infinite relief. Over an old crazy bedstead was thrown a squalid, patchwork counterpane; and upon the counterpane lay a black hood and scarf, a pair of bodice of the cumbrous form in vogue at the beginning of the last century, and some other articles of female attire. It’s a sort of blacklegging to want to have a life of one’s own. “But perhaps I want to confess them. “And even then—” The conversation hung for a thoughtful moment. Her father read a draft prospectus warily, and her aunt dropped fragments of her projects for managing while the cook had a holiday. She could not feel her own body. ‘I doubt it.
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