” To which the only possible reply seemed to be, “I’m not coming home. She could visualize the picture she had presented, particularly the battered papier-mâché kitbag at her feet. She had a feeling as though something had dropped from her eyes, as though she had just discovered herself for the first time—discovered herself as a sleepwalker might do, abruptly among dangers, hindrances, and perplexities, on the verge of a cardinal crisis. But De Maupassant—sheer off! Stick to Dickens and Thackeray and Hugo. She entered the kitchen. She remembered that she had not gone to bed until two o'clock in the morning.
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