"Here is my purse; and I trust you will let me know to whom I am indebted for this important service. Glancing idly up at her own window as they had swung round the corner she had seen a strange thing. I am tired, and I want to be alone. It'll be your turn to save mine next. She could still remember his face, the perpetually wet lips that turned down at the sides, his drooping Roman eyes. She bolted awake in the large bed which was awash in a sea of silks, furs, and red curtains. A white house that she often found charming loomed gray and ashen, its gardens shorn for the coming winter. That is what terrified her: the consciousness that nothing in her life would be continuous, that she would no sooner form friendships (like the present) than relentless fate would thrust her into a new circle.
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