There is not a soul in the inn but ourselves. 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. Including the wings, it presented a frontage of five hundred and forty feet. By the time John returned with popcorn and a large Coke, the theater had filled up with high-school kids.
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