Part 8 And as she sat on her bed that night, musing and half-undressed, she began to run one hand down her arm and scrutinize the soft flow of muscle under her skin. He frowned. If only sometimes he would grow angry at her, impatient! But his tender courtesy was unfailing; and under this would be the abiding bitterness of having mistaken gratitude for love. Even WITH the Censorship of Plays there’s hardly a decent thing to which a man can take his wife and daughters, a creeping taint of suggestion everywhere. “The wrappered life-discipline! One comes to that at last. “I have loved you,” he was saying, “ever since you sat on that gate and talked. It was past seven when she got back to her hotel. She remembered him as a dull figure, a big man with a belly that was already showing fat under his fine scarlet clothes. He would always be her friend, too.
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