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Updated: May 9, 2025
Ten minutes ago the gaslighted house behind her had seemed like a prison. She felt that she must have air, space, and freedom. She would have liked a long ride on the buffalo-track. That, she felt, would clear her mind. She was no romantic creature out of her sphere, no exotic. She was country-born and bred, and her blood had been charged by a prairie instinct passing through three generations.
We had not much fancy for returning amongst the patriotic crowd gathered about the gaslighted Valhalla, so we made our way out. We English must have our say about statistics whenever there is a wedding or a funeral, and as a fact Buda-Pest comes out very badly in its death-rate.
But for ten minutes she sat in a leather-and-oak waiting room, beneath a fly-specked Rembrandt's "Night-Watch," a clock ticking spang into the gaslighted silence and the very chairs seeming to meditate as they stood. Then a pair of black-walnut doors slid back, and on a puff of iodoform Lilly passed between them and they clicked shut again.
Ten minutes ago the gaslighted house behind her had seemed like a prison. She felt that she must have air, space, and freedom. She would have liked a long ride on the buffalo-track. That, she felt, would clear her mind. She was no romantic creature out of her sphere, no exotic. She was country-born and bred, and her blood had been charged by a prairie instinct passing through three generations.
I had the sensation of being carried along with the moving masses, without the exercise of my own will, I hardly know how one could have turned back. And on we went, the light of the short winter day meanwhile fading quickly into the gloom of night. Once beyond the gaslighted streets, the sense of darkness in the midst of the surging multitude was oppressive and unnatural.
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