There she sought and at last found 107A, one of those heterogeneous piles of offices which occupy the eastern side of the lane. Then making a pretence of stooping to rearrange her flowing train, she glanced at Anna, and half stopped in her progress down the room. But he did not follow on with the thought. At the thought of the major, her tears redoubled and she was obliged to rip off a piece from the remnants of her already maltreated underpetticoats with which to blow her nose and soak the damp from her cheeks. “I think she would,” she decided. She was a schizophrenic, got locked up later in some sort of state mental ward. She had tried him as a Crusader, in which guise he seemed plausible but heavy—“There IS something heavy about him; I wonder if it’s his mustache?”—and as a Hussar, which made him preposterous, and as a Black Brunswicker, which was better, and as an Arab sheik. She closed her eyes as if asleep, her hands folded neatly on her abdomen. “Do you play an instrument?” “I play the fiddle sometimes. “I can’t! He appears to be a most immovable person. To think of him as loving her would make all that different. His eyes never left her face.
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