Chapter XXIII MONTAGUE HILL SEES LIGHT AT LAST At exactly ten minutes past ten Annabel rang the bell of her sister’s flat. The smell of laundry detergent was noticeable, the bed sheets very tightly stretched across the bed, tucked in on three sides. It seemed to him that speech would be an anticlimax. It’s just to feel—one owns one’s self. There came a wild rush of anthropological lore into her brain, a flare of indecorous humor. Even the horns were easing into the concept and the woodwinds in the second movement were particularly well-orchestrated. “I think,” she said, “that I rather like what you have said. Winifred's reception was kind, but more distant, and after the slight ceremonial she resumed her occupation.
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