She looked at the white ankle socks on her feet and was reminded simultaneously of her pajama outfit and the suitcase that still lay underneath the bed. And a ballot-box—” Her face assumed an expression of intellectual conflict. Don’t, don’t say anything now, not anything. She seemed to have recovered herself as he returned, but rose as if she would go back to the saloon. He could remember when women laid away their gowns in lavender—as this girl's mother had. Then she went in and up-stairs, hesitated on the landing, and finally, a little breathless and with an air of great dignity, opened the door and walked into Ann Veronica’s room. “I think I ought to have one. If I had been quite quiet and white and dignified, wouldn’t it have been different? Would he have dared?.
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