Her servant did not come till eight o'clock, and she prepared her own tea-tray and placed it beside the bed.

Then she locked the door of the flat, extinguished her light and lay down.

But on her bed sleep would not come, and she lay face to face with the fact that she hated Lily Bart.

It closed with her in the darkness like some formless evil to be blindly grappled with.

Reason, judgment, renunciation, all the sane daylight forces, were beaten back in the sharp struggle for self-preservation.