It is not proven that Elizabeth’s personal equilibrium was set off balance by the slant of the office floor, nor could it be proven that it was Elizabeth who pushed the building off its foundations, but it is undeniable that they began to slip at about the same time.

She was not even interesting enough to distinguish with a nickname

I should call it, as a matter of fact, a completely practical practical joke, not for the general order of person, but most effective if one just happens to have four warring personalities, and one pencil.

I wondered irreverently at the comparative mildness of Miss R.’s mental illness, looking at the great mounds and masses of bright colors, the overlarge furniture (overlarge for me, overlarge for Miss R., but of course suited nicely to Miss Jones) the great splashing decorations, of which the “modern” design upon the curtains was not the least, the bizarre ornaments.

Her manners of dress, of speech, of doing her hair, of spending her time, had not changed since it first became apparent to a much younger Morgen that in all her life to come no one was, in all probability, going to care in the slightest how she looked, or what she did, and the minor wrench of leaving humanity behind was more than compensated for by her complacent freedom from a thousand small irritations.

You can find my review of The Bird’s Nest here.

Photo by Violetta Kaszubowska