"Usually, when she felt rotten and depressed like this, her house was a comfort: she could fly to it in her mind, and become engrossed in its decoration. This evening, when she transported herself through the shiny black door with its white pediment and plasters into the small square hall that had black and white tiles laid chequerwork with s border on the floor (she had recently redone the floor) and admired her lemon and orange trees that lived in a pair of black and white ties placed each side of the Russian stove, even before she reached the table she had made of marble Mosaic with a border of shells on which stood the Victorian glass jug that had an ingenious way of keeping lemonade cool, picked up at a church bazaar last Christmas, this evening she was halted by, struck suddenly by the dreariness of living quite alone (albeit with cats) for the rest of her life."
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