It was not a cambric curtain Ruth had drawn across that part of her life: it was of iron. "Is this Misther Wudd's, my pretty miss?" demanded the rough voice of the Irish watchman. “No lecturing, Anna!” she exclaimed. Lucy was silent. 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.
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