Singularly enough, the sharp call of the telephone-bell still echoed in her ear, and her body and mind were in a state of tension, as if, at any moment, she might hear another summons of greater interest to her than the whole of the nineteenth century.

She did not clearly realize what this call was to be; but when the ears have got into the habit of listening, they go on listening involuntarily, and thus Katharine spent the greater part of the morning in listening to a variety of sounds in the back streets of Chelsea.

For the first time in her life, probably, she wished that Mrs.Hilbery would not keep so closely to her work.

A quotation from Shakespeare would not have come amiss.

Now and again she heard a sigh from her mother's table, but that was the only proof she gave of her existence, and Katharine did not think of connecting it with the square aspect of her own position at the table, or, perhaps, she would have thrown her pen down and told her mother the reason of her restlessness.
The only writing she managed to accomplish in the course of the morning was one letter, addressed to her cousin, Cassandra Otway--a rambling letter, long, affectionate, playful and commanding all at once.