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 "I know it is," she sighed, distressfully re-reading it. "It doesn't sound abandoned, but how can I sound abandoned in this drawing-room?" She stood up, self-consciously. "The cage that it is," she said aloud, "the intolerable cage!" and began to walk about among the furniture. "—Those chintzes are pretty, I am glad I chose them. And those sweet ruched satin cushions If he came to tea I would sit over here by the window, with the curtains drawn a little behind me—no, over here by the fireplace, it would be in winter and there would be nothing but firelight. But people of that sort never come to tea; he would come later on in the evening and the curtains would be drawn, and I should be wearing my—Oh, 'like a nymph.' How trivial it all seems."

And Harold had wondered what there would be left for her to do if she didn't go down the High Street. She would show him. But if she went through with this to the end Harold must never know, and what would be the good of anything without Harold for an audience?

She again re-read the letter she had written: