She tried to imagine the collective effect of the Fadden Ball; she had never seen a fancy-dress gathering in her life. “Are you going on again this winter with that scientific work of yours? It’s an instance of heredity, I suppose. Annabel! Annabel!” His voice became a shriek. What would happen when next morning she returned to Morningside Park? He couldn’t turn her out of doors. Still unconscious of anything he did physically. The man’s as obstinate as a mule. She had had to do away with many a leering foster father since she had started frequenting foster homes in the middle of the century. . Asking her way once or twice, she passed along Fleet Street into the Strand, and crossed Trafalgar Square, into Piccadilly.
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