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. She did not see the metal pole swing toward the back of her skull, nor did she feel her own blood spoiling her light hair after the dull crack of metal broke her flesh. She tried to imagine the collective effect of the Fadden Ball; she had never seen a fancy-dress gathering in her life. There are only a few jobs over here for a man of your type; and even these are more or less hopeless if you haven't trained mechanical ability. She stuffed her violin in its case and rushed into the hallway towards John, who stood outside of 118 with his arms crossed. “Bother it all!” she swore. He could not quite make her out; a new type.
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