In each corner stood a stout square post reaching to the ceiling. Sydney was strumming over a new song which stood upon the piano. He passed, and came loitering back and stood beside her, silently looking into her face. She sat in deep thought for a moment or two, and then nodding briskly, dipped the pen in the ink again and began to write. ” “Wait,” she said. “I wonder which of us is right,” she said. She would then hear his feet pounding up the steps and he would burst into whatever room she was sitting in and say, “There she is! My wife! Hiding her beauty from the world!” He would then run to her, grab her book or embroidery and unceremoniously toss them to the floor. ‘Gone!’ he said. And at the thought of that other lover—he was convinced that that beloved person was a lover, and she found herself unable to say a word to explain to him that this other person, the person she loved, did not even know of her love—Ramage grew angry and savage once more, and returned suddenly to gibe and insult. She wasn’t sure of herself when she said it.
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