‘Read that,’ and threw the telegram at me, so that it went into the tureen. He had kissed his wife on the mouth … and had been horrified! There was real madness somewhere along this road. It now came to him with an added thrill how well she had told her story; simply and directly, no skipping, no wandering hither and yon: from the first hour she could remember, to the night she had fled in the proa, a clear sustained narrative. With trembling fingers she opened the post-bag. He could not pull her soul apart now to satisfy that queer absorbing, delving thing which was his literary curiosity; he had put her outside that circle. Mom, this is Lucy Albert from school. Don’t think it was anything better than fever—or a bit beautiful.
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