She looked steadfastly out. The London backgrounds, in Bloomsbury and Marylebone, against which these people went to and fro, took on, by reason of their gray facades, their implacably respectable windows and window-blinds, their reiterated unmeaning iron railings, a stronger and stronger suggestion of the flavor of her father at his most obdurate phase, and of all that she felt herself fighting against. She held out her arm straight before her, and turned her hand this way and that. She went to her room and changed the loose morning gown in which she had lunched for a dark walking dress. Loneliness.
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