She trailed him to his apartment and a black door that read 727 in solemn gold-tone lettering. "Leave the room," interposed Kneebone, angrily. What was it she had expected? Surely her moods were getting a little out of hand. She fell into a deep delirium, whispering hoarsely to her dead mother, cursing God in Heaven, cursing her doctor, cursing herself as apparitions of devils and demons pulled at her with yellow ochre hands. It was now a quarter past twelve. Her feathered hat fell from her head and down her back, and she felt fingers writhing in the mass of her hair and caressing the flesh of her neck beneath so that she shivered uncontrollably.
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