It is absolutely right."
August was confused by the keenness of her perception. It wasn't proper
for a woman to understand such facts. He was at a loss for a reply.
"Seven men spoke to me in it on one afternoon. It is no good for you to
try to reassure me with platitudes; I know better. I ought to, at
least."
August Turnbull was startled by the fire of resentment smoldering under
her still pale exterior. Why, she was like a charged battery. If he
touched her, he thought, sparks would fly. She was utterly different
from Emmy, as different as a live flame from ashes.
It was evident that having at last spoken she intended to unburden
herself of long-accumulated passionate words.
"All my life I've had to listen to and smile sweetly at ridiculous
hypocrisies. I have had to teach them and live them too. But now I'm so
sick of them I can't keep it up a month longer. I could kill some one,
easily. In a world where salvation for a woman is in a pair of slippers
I have to be damned. If I could have kept my hair smartly done up and
worn sheer batiste do you suppose for a minute I'd be a companion to
Mrs. Turnbull? I could be going out to the cafes in a landaulet."
"And looking a lot better than most that do," he commented without
premeditation.
She glanced at him again, and he saw that her eyes were gray,
habitually half closed and inviting.
"I've had frightfully bad luck," she went on; "once or twice when it
seemed that I was to have a chance, when it appeared brighter--
everything went to pieces.
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