After all, this is our private affair.
"We'll go on about money matters as we have been going. I trust to
you not to run me into overwhelming debts. And, of course, if at
any time, you do want to marry--on account of children or anything--
if nobody knows of this conversation we can be divorced then. . . ."
Benham threw out these decisions in little dry sentences while
Amanda gathered her forces for her last appeal.
It was an unsuccessful appeal, and at the end she flung herself down
before him and clung to his knees. He struggled ridiculously to get
himself clear, and when at last he succeeded she dropped prostrate
on the floor with her dishevelled hair about her.
She heard the door close behind him, and still she lay there, a dark
Guinevere, until with a start she heard a step upon the thick carpet
without. He had come back. The door reopened. There was a slight
pause, and then she raised her face and met the blank stare of the
second housemaid. There are moments, suspended fragments of time
rather than links in its succession, when the human eye is more
intelligible than any words.
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