Perhaps this was the real turning point: the hour in which the disordered mind began permanently to readjust itself. From time to time she would come upon a line of singular beauty or a paragraph full of haunting music; and these would send her rushing on for something that never happened. But the great point was still unaccomplished. Some of your sex, I mean. She wanted to think of him as her beloved person, to be near him and watch him, to have him going about, doing this and that, saying this and that, unconscious of her, while she too remained unconscious of herself. Of course, at home there would have been questions. “Do you play an instrument?” “I play the fiddle sometimes. “Go on!” she commanded. “Really,” she said. "There's only one way out of the muddle, that I can see. At last she glanced at a little clock in the corner of the room, and sprang to her feet. “Annabel!” she exclaimed. A little relieved by this step toward reinstatement, she went on to the Imperial College to forget her muddle of problems for a time, if she could, in the presence of Capes. "Hush!" she said.
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