“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. Was that it? Had she clothed this unhappy young man with glamour? Or was it because he was so alone? She could not get through the husks to the kernel of what really actuated her. ‘Coward,’ she threw at him, brandishing the sword. “The plain common-sense of the case,” he said, “is that we can’t possibly be lovers in the ordinary sense. “I wish that I could forget it,” he said. Marthe has told me that the house comes to my mother, Ma—ry Re—men—ham.
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