"You will be wanting your broth, Hoddy," she said. She looked in the glass over and over as she checked for lint and makeup streaks. There would be ultimate misery, but it would be needless cruelty to give her a push toward it. When he returned, it was always the same. She tried to imagine herself “getting something,” to project herself as sitting down at a desk and writing, or as returning after her work to some pleasantly equipped and free and independent flat. But Miss Stanley took no notice of these things. How does one get work? She walked along the Strand and across Trafalgar Square, and by the Haymarket to Piccadilly, and so through dignified squares and palatial alleys to Oxford Street; and her mind was divided between a speculative treatment of employment on the one hand, and breezes—zephyr breezes—of the keenest appreciation for London, on the other.
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