Anna thrust hers into her pocket unopened, and for the first time left the house without a smile upon her face. He knew my name, and also that I had been living in Paris, and a man doesn’t risk claiming a girl for his wife, as a rule, for nothing. “Oh, my dear!” she cried, and suddenly flung herself, kneeling, into her husband’s arms. It fell to the ground and smoked ominously. “This,” he exclaimed, “must be either the indifference of an utterly callous nature, or it may be—ye gods, it may be—innocence. “I have heard these things from you before, and you have had my answer. I call myself a man of the world, a man of many experiences, but I never knew what love meant—until I met your sister. “I am sick of it. Are you going to write a novel?” “Not I,” she answered gaily.
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