He was always drawing contrasts between a woman’s lot and a man’s, and treating her as a wonderful new departure in this comparison. Your husband could have told you that. Poor girl! she was beautiful once; so beautiful as to make me, who care little for the allurements of women, fancy myself enamoured of her. She realized more and more the quality of the brink upon which she stood—the dreadful readiness with which in certain moods she might plunge, the unmitigated wrongness and recklessness of such a self-abandonment. Detached, it was not impossible that she would be forced to leave the dining room because of invading tears. ‘Come on.
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