Perhaps once a week she allowed herself to stray about the alleys of the Reading-room, scanning furtively those who sat at the desks, but the face she might perchance have discovered was not there.
One day at the end of the month she sat with books open before her, but by no effort could fix her attention upon them.

It was gloomy, and one could scarcely see to read; a taste of fog grew perceptible in the warm, headachy air.

Such profound discouragement possessed her that she could not even maintain the pretence of study; heedless whether anyone observed her, she let her hands fall and her head droop.

She kept asking herself what was the use and purpose of such a life as she was condemned to lead.

When already there was more good literature in the world than any mortal could cope with in his lifetime, here was she exhausting herself in the manufacture of printed stuff which no one even pretended to be more than a commodity for the day's market.