“Why shouldn’t one face the facts of one’s self?” She stood up. The spinsters—who on the morrow would vanish out of the girl's life for ever—had already left their imprint upon her imagination. “Never mind me. “Neither you nor I, Nigel, are made of such stuff,” she answered. ” “Eh?” “I’ve forgotten something. It would not be possible otherwise to live in daily contact with this level-eyed, lovely girl without loving her. You would rather live like the scum of the earth, in that little brown hovel you call a house, in bourgeois paradise. Now I’d like the rest of your story. ’ ‘You surprise me. . She had turned round sideways, so as to look down into the fire. You have all the earmarks of a fugitive from justice.
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