Meanwhile the steady beat of her own pulse represented the hot current of feeling that ran down beneath; beating, struggling, fretting.
For the time, her own body was the source of all the life in the world, which tried to burst forth here--there--and was repressed now by Mr.
Bax, now by Evelyn, now by the imposition of ponderous stupidity, the weight of the entire world.

Thus tormented, she would twist her hands together, for all things were wrong, all people stupid.

Vaguely seeing that there were people down in the garden beneath she represented them as aimless masses of matter, floating hither and thither, without aim except to impede her.

What were they doing, those other people in the world?
"Nobody knows," she said.

The force of her rage was beginning to spend itself, and the vision of the world which had been so vivid became dim.
"It's a dream," she murmured.