Nevertheless, she could not prevent a rising excitement as the dawn of the new life drew near to her—a thrilling of the nerves, a secret and delicious exaltation above the common circumstances of existence. Then Sheila noticed the stains. Art was everywhere, underfoot in the form of mosaics, overhead in the form of architecture. “I don’t care a rap for remembering. And how could I come home—when he locks me in rooms and all that?” “I do wish this wasn’t going on,” said Miss Stanley, after a pause. Once she reached the bamboo curtain, clutched at it and tore it down as his arms went around her waist.
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