It was Sebastian’s fault for slapping her face and letting the baby out. Drummond took up a cigarette and lit it. 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. You’re of age— you’re of age. I am sorry, but you have spoilt me.
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