The matting was soaked with rain; there was dust on the painted walls.

Over the bookcases were the dwellings of insects; straws from the sparrows' nests on the glass of the chandeliers.

In the house there was no mistress, and without a mistress paradise itself would be a ruin.
As in an untended garden overgrown with grass a single rose or lily will bloom, so in this house Kunda Nandini lived alone.

Wherever a few joined in a meal Kunda partook of it.

If any one addressed her as house-mistress, Kunda thought, "They are mocking me." If the _Dewan_ sent to ask her about anything her heart beat with fear.