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A person of somewhat artificial graces and mannerisms, she was for once in her life perfectly natural. She was fine and tender. It is no fault of your own that you are not at this moment standing there with your head blown off. But, by Jove! it’s going to make our loving a fiercely abstract thing. She had thought—What had she thought? That this dependence of women was but an illusion which needed only to be denied to vanish. “But why,” he said in the gasping voice of one subduing an agony, and looked at her from under a pain-wrinkled brow, “why did you not tell me this before?” “I didn’t know—I thought I might be able to control myself.
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