But her heart kept on sinking. There were neither texts nor rubbish on the walls, but only a stirring version of Belshazzar’s feast, a steel engraving in the early Victorian manner that had some satisfactory blacks. Bête, she told herself fiercely. No more did she offer her forehead for the good-night kiss. The world, perhaps, will be educated out of its idea of fixed standards. Mr. Murder had become nothing to her. “The Annabel who lives here, who sings every night at the ‘Unusual’? They call her by your old name. I am always reinventing myself with new styles.
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