"All life is a muddle, and we are all muddlers, more or less. “Where are they?” She looked around. This made the eleventh. Fortescue had not much ability to keep her sister, and a little while after her mother’s death Ann Veronica met Gwen suddenly on the staircase coming from her father’s study, shockingly dingy in dusty mourning and tearful and resentful, and after that Gwen receded from the Morningside Park world, and not even the begging letters and distressful communications that her father and aunt received, but only a vague intimation of dreadfulness, a leakage of incidental comment, flashes of paternal anger at “that blackguard,” came to Ann Veronica’s ears. Why aren’t you folded up clean in lavender—as every young woman ought to be? What have you been doing with yourself?. ” And then he flashed his whole conception of the relations of men and women upon her in one astonishing question.
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