” Lucy yanked him into the hidden door to Room 109, a door to the backstage that looked like the entrance to a broom closet. She paused. Ah, no, I have it wrong. Cathy appeared in her bathrobe. 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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