Joyous, she felt the need of physical expression; and her body began to sway sinuously, to glide and turn and twist about the room. She shuddered, adding confidentially, ‘You wouldn’t get me in there now, mind. He’s a prig to the finger-tips, is Sir John—doesn’t know what an artist is. But it is all very different. “No!” Her thoughts had turned in a new direction. About many of these houses hung a mysterious taint as of something weakly and commonly and dustily evil; the women who negotiated the rooms looked out through a friendly manner as though it was a mask, with hard, defiant eyes.
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