She enjoyed preparing the evening meals, the smells of potatoes roasting in the oven, the stink of onions in the pan, the crackle of chicken frying. But that possibility had been anticipated. Morningside Park was a suburb that had not altogether, as people say, come off. “Second class,” said some one, but first and second were all alike to her. Her target was a fifty-four year old man who lived with his mother, an obese neighborhood woman, a widow named Dawn Plote. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution must comply with both paragraphs 1. Restlessness, then, was the trouble, simple restlessness: home bored her. “How shall I put the question? What am I? What have I got to do with myself?. And this great mellow place, this London, now was hers, to struggle with, to go where she pleased in, to overcome and live in. A girl—at my age—is grown-up. But you are Annabel.
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