Kindle Notes & Highlights
She entered the Gallery, and then stood on the threshold—aware of a change. This was not the familiar place she knew so well.
But, as she threw her torch over them, a pinprick of light gleamed in each glassy eye, imparting a fiction of life.
They seemed to regard her with unfriendly eyes, as though she had interrupted some secret and exciting mystery. They resented her presence. At this hour, the gallery belonged to Them.
When, afterwards, she looked back on her first night at Riverpool, it always appeared intangible as the dust of a dream, so that she could not be sure of her memory. Every place seemed to be dark, and buildings rocked. There was confusion of senses, and optical illusion, in which men were transformed into waxworks and waxworks into men.
As she spoke, Sonia had the feeling that the Waxworks were listening to her. The Gallery had suddenly grown still and silent as a stagnant pond.
As for her fine future, he was confident that some young man would soon remove her, painlessly and permanently, from the sphere of journalism.
“Thanks, but I don’t bet,” Sonia told him. “No vices?” “One. I write.”
