She was sick of herself, of her life, of everything but him; and for him all her masked and hidden being was crying out. “I wonder,” she said, “why one writes him sentences like that? It’ll have to go,” she decided, “I’ve written too many already. She thought of the suitcase, the seventy-seven dollars for a Greyhound ticket that had expired. He was still flashily dressed, with much obvious jewellery and the shiniest of patent boots, but his general bearing and appearance had altered for the worse. ” “Well, he was presumptuous,” Annabel remarked, “and he wasn’t nice about it.
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