The doctor walked over to the bed, folded his arms across his chest and stared down into the unabashed eyes of his patient. “Act three. Bête, she told herself fiercely. “Do you mean, aunt,” she asked, “that my father thought I had gone off—with some man?” “What else COULD he think? Would any one DREAM you would be so mad as to go off alone?” “After—after what had happened the night before?” “Oh, why raise up old scores? If you could see him this morning, his poor face as white as a sheet and all cut about with shaving! He was for coming up by the very first train and looking for you, but I said to him, ‘Wait for the letters,’ and there, sure enough, was yours. She makes catty comments about you to her friends if you are within hearing distance—that’s her thing—then if you are brave enough to confront her, she just denies it all and laughs at you. "You must not remain here," he said. And I want you for myself—for my wife. ’ ‘A mistake, I agree.
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