" "Go, Sir," rejoined the knight, haughtily. She read beautifully because the fixed form of the poem signified nothing. He wants you—or he doesn’t; and then he helps some other woman against you. The immense disillusionment that awaited him! The devastating disillusionment! She had a vague desire to run after him, to state her case to him, to wring some understanding from him of what life was to her. Do you understand?’ ‘Aye, sir. The drawers at the moment were too busy to attend to her, and she would have seized the opportunity of examining, unperceived, the assemblage within, through a little curtained window that overlooked the adjoining chamber, if an impediment had not existed in the shape of Baptist Kettleby, whose portly person entirely obscured the view. We men are like children.
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