The Supper at Mr. ‘I begin to ask myself why it is that I wish to become of these people. No breakfast, he’s had no dinner, hardly a mouthful of soup— since yesterday at tea. 1 through 1. 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.
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