The Story of a Modern Woman the Story of a Modern Woman

A quarter to ten? He would hardly come now; he always had a nice eye to the proprieties. But his cab might have broken down; he might have been detained at the club. The march up and down the room continued. Mary never knew how much she walked that night. The long, empty hours seemed interminable. But at last, in the still, sultry air, she could hear Big Ben strike eleven. Oh, eleven! Then it was all over; she might as well take off the pretty grey dress, unpin the bunch of roses.