Spurling, as if struck by a sudden idea. She was sick of herself, of her life, of everything but him; and for him all her masked and hidden being was crying out. “You see, dear, one IS passionately anxious for something—what is it? One wants to be CLEAN. “She”, you say. “What did it matter?” she cried. No one will ever love you as I love you now. "Those tears will do you good. “Idiots!” she said, when she heard this pandemonium, and with particular reference to this young lady with the throaty contralto next door. It was intolerable to think that he might overhear words and phrases. Have you not tired of sadness and pain?” 81 She thought she could hear tears in his voice but would not look at him. Then she cursed herself for his eyes went to the letter and came back to her face.
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