She felt her heartbeat accelerate until it was pounding her chest. She cried out with the pain of it. “I did not recognize him,” Anna answered. No work that offered was at all of the quality she had vaguely postulated for herself. The London backgrounds, in Bloomsbury and Marylebone, against which these people went to and fro, took on, by reason of their gray facades, their implacably respectable windows and window-blinds, their reiterated unmeaning iron railings, a stronger and stronger suggestion of the flavor of her father at his most obdurate phase, and of all that she felt herself fighting against.
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