“What’s that young lady’s name—girl in dark brown, stranger here?” Mr. 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. It never seems to enter their heads to try and amuse their menkind. Not like my father. The door to the library burst open. She watched them sleep for what seemed hours from the high window until her body grew colder than the stone sill she perched upon.
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