An hour later she went to bed, and there lay listening to the town--to its numberless voices, distinct and confused, from windows close by and from the street, and from other streets by hundreds and from a million other homes, and from the two rivers and the sea--voices blurred and fused in one.

And its tone, to Ethel's ears, was one of utter indifference--good-humoured enough but rather bored with "young things" weeping on its breast.
"Be Mrs.Grewe, if you like," it said, "or Sally Crothers or Fanny Carr.

Or go back home to your history prof.

Each one of these things has been done before by so many thousands just like you.

Nobody cares.
You have no neighbours.