You know—if you want freedom. She was aware of it now as if it were a voice shouting outside a house, shouting passionate verities in a hot sunlight, a voice that cries while people talk insincerely in a darkened room and pretend not to hear. My wife doesn’t understand, doesn’t understand now. “I am afraid,” he said to Anna afterwards, “that it was a mistake to order the champagne sec. What of madame, his wife?’ ‘You know more of her than me,’ the girl said with a look of scorn. Spurlock was no longer a man before this instinct; he was a child in trouble. The man was mad to marry me. But she did not know what he knew, that it would always be rolling up, enlivened by suggestion, no matter how trifling.
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