” “Why not?” she asked quietly. ‘Eh bien, you are not like Leonardo. Charity for the ragtag and the bobtail of the Seven Seas, and none for his own flesh and blood. The birds were singing blithely amid the trees,—the lowing of the cows resounded from the yard,—a delicious perfume from the garden was wafted through the open window,—at a distance, the church-bells of Willesden were heard tolling for evening service. She refused to accept her fate, but what is it that she could do about it? Night after night she invented alternatives. Why do I want him so badly? Why do I want him, and think about him, and fail to get away from him? “It isn’t all of me.
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