A queer feeling pervaded her: She was a marionette, a human manikin,
and some invisible hand was pulling the wires that made her do all
these absurd things. Her own mind no longer controlled her actions. The
persistence of that waltz! It had haunted her, broken into her dreams,
awakened her out of them. Why should she be afraid? What was there to be
afraid of in a recurring melody? She had heard a dozen famed
violinists play it. It had never before affected her beyond a flash of
emotionalism. Perhaps it was the romantic misfortune of the man, the
mystery surrounding him, the menace which walled him in.

Breakfast. Human manikins had appetites. So she made her breakfast.
Before leaving the kitchen she stopped at the window. The sun filled
the court with brilliant light. The patches of rust on the fire-escape
ladder, which was on the Gregor side of the platform, had the semblance
of powdered gold.

Half an hour later she was speeding downtown to the office. All through
the day she walked, worked, talked as one in the state of trance.
There were periods of stupefaction which at length roused Burlingame's
curiosity.

"Kitty, what's the matter with you? You look dazed about something."

"How do you clean a pipe?" she countered, irrelevantly.

"Clean a pipe?" he repeated, nearly overbalancing his chair.

"Yes. You see, I may make up my mind to marry a man who smokes a pipe,"
said Kitty, desperately, eager to steer Burlingame into another channel;
"and certainly I ought to know how to clean one."