She had a feeling as though something had dropped from her eyes, as though she had just discovered herself for the first time—discovered herself as a sleepwalker might do, abruptly among dangers, hindrances, and perplexities, on the verge of a cardinal crisis. Light flooded the uncarpeted chamber, revealing the decayed state of the place. Beyond was a chaise longue, covered with cushions and shawls laid anyhow across it, together with a discarded tapestry in the making, and a scattering of woollen threads about it. In the subdued light she could not tell whether he was asleep or awake. Mr. “Veronica!” cried Miss Stanley, warningly, and, “Peter!” For a moment they seemed on the verge of an altogether desperate scuffle. “Well, anyhow, consider it open. Have you been away from Morningside Park?” “I’m not interrupting you?” “You are.
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