“I wonder,” she said, “why one writes him sentences like that? It’ll have to go,” she decided, “I’ve written too many already. ’ Then she frowned. ‘Because I love you. She was sick of herself, of her life, of everything but him; and for him all her masked and hidden being was crying out. He felt hands tugging at him, mysterious creatures with long fingers and sharp nails that pulled at his flesh. They mean everything that women can mean—except submission. She sat drawn together in her chair in the corner of the box, at a loss what to say or do—afraid, curious, perplexed. She helped him take it off. The young fellow was almost as odd in his way as the girl was in hers. ‘You keep a-hold of him,’ Trodger ordered his men.
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