In one angle of the room stood a disused fire-place, with a rusty grate and broken chimney-piece; in the other there was a sort of box, contrived between the wall and the boards, that looked like an apology for a cupboard. “Until a girl can go away as a son does and earn her independent income, she’s still on a string. Where was this kindly world she had drawn so rosily in fancy? Disillusion everywhere. Seeing John in Chemistry was the worst. Three times he uttered a phrase: "A djinn in a blue-serge coat!" And each time he would follow it with a chuckle—the chuckle of a soul in damnation. Well, I don’t think that’s fair.
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