The fibre of his soul had to be tested, queerly, to make him worthy of you. He had nothing to guide him; for though the torches were blazing ruddily below, their gleam fell only on the side of the building. That her husband was not touching her anymore grew to be like a disease, something to be cured. He hated travelling second-class with her—indeed, he never did—but he also disliked travelling in the same train when his daughter was in an inferior class, because of the look of the thing. But perhaps if people didn’t like clear, bright, healthy eyes—which is biologically understandable—they couldn’t like precious stones.
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