Women are hypocrites to the last—true only to themselves. ’ ‘What, Madame Valade?’ demanded Gerald. Afterwards she hunted up the article in question, and it seemed to her quite delightfully written and argued. She thought of the suitcase, the seventy-seven dollars for a Greyhound ticket that had expired. There were dark rims under her eyes, soft now with unshed tears. She was vehemently impatient—she did not clearly know for what—to do, to be, to experience. This did not tickle his vanity; on the contrary, it enlivened his terror, which is a phase of fascination. ” “I’m a married man.
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