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“How could people ever live with things like this?” she shuddered. She saw the furniture as a circle of elderly judges, condemning her to death by smothering. The tottering brocade chair squeaked, “Choke her — choke her — smother her.” The old linen smelled of the tomb. She was alone in this house, this strange still house, among the shadows of dead thoughts and haunting repressions. “I hate it! I hate it!” she panted. “Why did I ever —— ”

She remembered that Kennicott's mother had brought these family relics from the old home in Lac-qui-Meurt. “Stop it! They're perfectly comfortable things. They're — comfortable. Besides —— Oh, they're horrible! We'll change them, right away.”

Then, “But of course he HAS to see how things are at the office —— ”

She made a pretense of busying herself with unpacking. The chintz-lined, silver-fitted bag which had seemed so desirable a luxury in St. Paul was an extravagant vanity here. The daring black chemise of frail chiffon and lace was a hussy at which the deep-bosomed bed stiffened in disgust, and she hurled it into a bureau drawer, hid it beneath a sensible linen blouse.