Nature is God, Anna, and the greatest artist of us all a pigmy. Part 4 But presently, as she sat on the one antimacassared red silk chair and surveyed her hold-all and bag in that tidy, rather vacant, and dehumanized apartment, with its empty wardrobe and desert toilet-table and pictureless walls and stereotyped furnishings, a sudden blankness came upon her as though she didn’t matter, and had been thrust away into this impersonal corner, she and her gear. But she could not live in constant association with him without having these gaps filled. “Of course,” he ventured, “I could try for more at the ‘Alhambra. Now if she sent fifteen pounds the suggestion that she had spent a five-pound note in the meanwhile would be irresistible.
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