When she looked at Rachel, who was still looking at the photographs on the bed, she could not help seeing that Rachel was not thinking about her.

What was she thinking about, then?
Evelyn was tormented by the little spark of life in her which was always trying to work through to other people, and was always being rebuffed.
Falling silent she looked at her visitor, her shoes, her stockings, the combs in her hair, all the details of her dress in short, as though by seizing every detail she might get closer to the life within.
Rachel at last put down the photographs, walked to the window and remarked, "It's odd.

People talk as much about love as they do about religion." "I wish you'd sit down and talk," said Evelyn impatiently.
Instead Rachel opened the window, which was made in two long panes, and looked down into the garden below.
"That's where we got lost the first night," she said.

"It must have been in those bushes." "They kill hens down there," said Evelyn.

"They cut their heads off with a knife--disgusting! But tell me--what--" "I'd like to explore the hotel," Rachel interrupted.