She looked at the empty grate.

She put a cigarette in her mouth, the unconscious and futile answer of the Dweller Alone to that blind hunger for comfort.

But she had no matches, and presently, dimly conscious that her groping for comfort had lacked result, she absently put another cigarette into her mouth, and then felt a fool.
She stared at the cold window.

The sky seemed to be nailed carelessly to it by means of a crooked star or two.
These are the terrible nights of Living Alone, when you have fever and sometimes think that your beloved stands in the doorway to bring you comfort, and sometimes think that you have no beloved, and that there is no one left in all the world, no word, no warmth, nor ever a kindly candle to be lighted in that spotted darkness that walls up your hot sight.

Again on those nights you dream that you have already done those genial things your body cries for, or perhaps That Other has done them.
The fire is built and alight at last, a cup of something cool and beautifully sour stands ready to your hand, you can hear the delicious rattle of china on a tray in the passage--someone coming with food you would love to look at, and presently perhaps to eat ...