It was one of the secret troubles of her mind, this grotesque twist her ideas would sometimes take, as though they rebelled and rioted. If he died, here in this hotel, who would care? Or if she died, who would care? A queer desire blossomed in her heart: to go to him, urge him to see the folly of trying to forget. She seemed smitten with a paroxysm of fear. She could feel Martin’s eyes boring into her as she entered the room, her own personal Farhat. . “Loneliness,” she said, “is a luxury which I never permit myself. “He is not—I don’t like him.
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