After all, although Susan was not entirely reconciled to it, the move had gone as she had planned, and the rooms were by now comfortably furnished. She was pleased with the way it looked, the way the black piano now gleamed with polish and formed the focal point of one end of her sitting room, while the big window formed the other. Her life with Ralph had accustomed her to living in comfort – indeed, luxury – and expensive accoutrements with which to enhance a home were nowhere more readily available than in the Viennese shops. But little gilt chairs, slippery satin upholstery and spindly tables which might have graced other, more fashionable houses would have looked out of place here, and she’d gone for one or two conventional Biedermeier pieces, their plain solidity showing off the few pictures, mirrors and rugs she’d allowed herself. She set great vases of flowers everywhere and agreed with Susan that it would all do very well as a temporary expedient. And yet… She had been so sure she would find the beginnings of a new life here, so why then did she feel this sense of incompleteness, this feeling of strangeness and disconnection, of being in limbo?
