Cowering in a corner upon a heap of straw sat his unfortunate mother, the complete wreck of what she had been. 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. She seemed to grow more beautiful to him and not the opposite. “Flesh and flowers are all alike to me. —Gentlemen, your most obsequious trout.
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