’ Chapter Nine As she devoured the simple meal of bread and cheese, and several slices of cold roast beef, the whole washed down with a poor sort of coffee, Melusine listened with avid interest to the details of her mother’s life as revealed by the exclamatory conversation of Joan Ibstock. Half the rooms empty. She dragged the broken bottle across her carotid artery, creating an inch-deep gash upon her throat. At last, a little way to the northward of Euston Road, the moral cloud seemed to lift, the moral atmosphere to change; clean blinds appeared in the windows, clean doorsteps before the doors, a different appeal in the neatly placed cards bearing the word ————————————— | APARTMENTS ————————————— | in the clear bright windows. Her father’s ideas of expostulation were a little harsh and forcible, and over the claret-colored table-cloth and under the gas chandelier, with his hat and umbrella between them like the mace in Parliament, he and his daughter contrived to have a violent quarrel. “Yes, mostly. And I passed myself off as Meysey Hill, and since—then—I haven’t had a minute’s peace. On their left the river, with its gloomy pile of buildings on the opposite side, and a huge revolving advertisement throwing its strange reflection upon the black water. “Perhaps one talks nonsense about a woman’s instinct,” she said. Jack had brought away the bunch of keys which he had taken from Quilt Arnold, but, none of them would open it. Voting wouldn’t do no ‘arm to ‘er.
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