“I did it for love of you,” he said. “I wonder what you could do?” he said. She was perhaps three-and-twenty, and very pink and healthy-looking, showing a great deal of white and rounded neck above her business-like but altogether feminine blouse, and a good deal of plump, gesticulating forearm out of her short sleeve. “But you yourself,” she exclaimed, glancing into his face, “you too look tired. Then she looked at her aunt, and traced with a curious eye the careful arrangement of her hair, her sharp nose, the little drooping lines of mouth and chin and cheek. She was sick of herself, of her life, of everything but him; and for him all her masked and hidden being was crying out. Yet before she turned once more to resume her flight she schooled herself with an effort to look where it had happened. ” Sheila snarled.
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