At length, at the end of a passage, next to the cell where Mrs. White said slowly, “it depends a good deal upon what rooms you have. No offence, I hope. “You seem to forget that my sister is—married. Wood was once a favourite of yours. ” She was silent for a time, with her nose on the pillow, and that brought her to: “What’s the good of pretending? “I love him,” she said aloud to the dim forms of her room, and repeated it, and went on to imagine herself doing acts of tragically dog-like devotion to the biologist, who, for the purposes of the drama, remained entirely unconscious of and indifferent to her proceedings.
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