Your father…. There was one letter. “Well?” he asked her tersely. The world, she discovered, with these matters barred had no particular place for her at all, nothing for her to do, except a functionless existence varied by calls, tennis, selected novels, walks, and dusting in her father’s house. Her white shirt was mired with a central bloodstain, his pants caked with mud. “It’s all dirt that washes off, dear, but it’s dirt. Old thoughts, old feelings, old faces, and old scenes have returned to me, and I have fancied myself happy,—as happy as I am now.
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