In her little sitting-room she turned on the electric light and looked around half fearfully. . A woman isn’t much freer—in reality. All her pride raged at me. " "Has Jonathan Wild been here to-day?" asked Mrs. I took the usual way home. Nor, indeed, did she want to refuse. She felt he would tell people the way, control traffic, and refuse admission to public buildings with invincible correctness and the very finest explicit feelings possible. Yet he’s been here for six years, and he’s as much a fixture as that sham mahogany sideboard. It is difficult to express these things. She could not hide her face. She slipped down the perfunctory flight of stairs, short because of the home’s split-level style. ‘You wish a reason for jealousy? Eh bien, you may have it. When he returned, it was always the same.
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