He laughed once or twice at himself as he paced backwards and forwards. Goodbye. Katy’s face was vapid and undistinguishable from a crowd, but pretty in an abstract sense, like the face of a baby doll. She realized more and more the quality of the brink upon which she stood—the dreadful readiness with which in certain moods she might plunge, the unmitigated wrongness and recklessness of such a self-abandonment. She had recourse to the torn off strip of petticoat again, and blowing her nose with an air of determination, sniffed back the tears. She stood there with white set face and nervously clenched fingers. When the paroxysm passed, he was forced to lean against the window-jamb for support.
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