” “I’m sorry. " "Why, my love," rejoined her husband, "appearances, you must allow, were a little against you. " "Why, surely you don't think your guests would steal them," observed Rachel, archly. This hand consigned him to destruction, but another was stretched forth to save him. It was his heart. ‘You imbecile. My garden-close would be a better thing than that. There were moments when she doubted whether the whole mass of movements and societies and gatherings and talks was not simply one coherent spectacle of failure protecting itself from abjection by the glamour of its own assertions.
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