It was a picture of an empty room.

Hot summer sunlight filtered through the lowered Venetian blinds, and fell in bands on the golden wood of the floor.

Outside the air was burned and dusty, but inside the room all was clear, cool, and pure.
"How perfect his things are," murmured Mrs.Farron to herself, and then added to her daughter: "Yes, my dear, I did take in what you said.

You really think you are in love with this Wayne boy, don't you?
It's immensely to your credit, darling," she went on, her tone taking on a flattering sweetness, "to care so much about any one who has such funny, stubby little hands--most unattractive hands," she added almost dreamily.
There was a long pause during which an extraordinary thing happened to Mathilde.

She found that it didn't make the very slightest difference to her what her mother thought of Pete or his hands, that it would never make any difference to her again.