” “I say,” she reflected, “you ARE rather the master, you know. There was nothing in his manner to suggest the misery of the preceding night. It’s a sort of home-leaving instinct. Do you think that it makes for happiness to force oneself into the extravagant belief that love is the only thing in the world worth having, and to sacrifice for it independence, self-respect, one’s whole scheme of life. On the contrary, I am altogether satisfied. See, it is on my cards—M. It was a great relief to arrive at last at that pause when she could say to her aunt, “Now, dear?” and rise and hold back the curtain through the archway. You are my prisoner, murderer.
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