She could not feel her own body. The inner apartment was rather gracefully furnished with a thick, fine Turkish carpet, a good brass fender, a fine old bureau, and on the walls were engravings of two young girls’ heads by Greuze, and of some modern picture of boys bathing in a sunlit pool. She had been so busy with life that, for a vast gulf of time, as it seemed, she had given no thought to those ancient, imagined things of her childhood. I don’t see what you can have to say. I had to sell out, you see, when my father died, for the estate is in my hands. It is what I have wanted, what I have meant all along. He—he has rather a poor opinion of his contemporaries.
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