Marina had retired to bed, drinking wine slowly, sleeping when she was not drinking. Hetty, looking out of the window—she always smoked her after-breakfast cigarette at the window for the benefit of the less advanced section of Morningside Park society—and trying not to raise objections, saw Miss Stanley going down toward the shops. She felt as if she had struck them unawares. “But what are you going to do?” asked Hetty. “I saw you in a sort of sloping, slippery place, holding on by your hands and slipping.
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