Mymble took the suitcase and the nightdresses into the guest room facing north and shut the door. The guest room facing south was hers, just as certainly as there was an old comb underneath the lace doily on the washstand. She lifted the doily and the comb was there. Mymble sat down by the window and undid her lovely long hair and began to comb it. Down below, the morning quarrel continued soundless outside the closed windows.
Mymble combed and combed. Her hair crackled with small electric sparks and became glossier and glossier. She stared absent-mindedly at the garden, which autumn had changed and turned into a strange and deserted landscape. The trees were like grey stage decorations, screens standing one behind the other in the wet mist, all quite bare. The noiseless quarrel in front of the veranda continued. They were waving their paws about, running this way and that and looking as unreal as the trees. Except Toft, he was standing quite still, staring at the ground.
