"My portrait!" echoed Jack. “She”, you say. Loved his memory still, for all he knew. Daily contact with actual human beings all the more inclined her toward the imaginative. Her features were meagre, and ghastly white, and had the fixed and horrible stamp of insanity. She liked the high, easy swing of the thing over its big wheels, the quick clatter-patter of the horse, the passage of the teeming streets. She brought the unconscious man down. ‘Think I’m fool enough to do my business in a convent?’ he said scornfully. He was not, it seemed, the proper stipendiary at all, and there had been some demur to his jurisdiction that had ruffled him. She had a feeling at his departure as of an immense cavity, of something enormously gone; she could not tell whether it was infinite regret or infinite relief. And now her mind was so full of the thought that she was in love—in love!—that marvellous state! that I really believe she had some dim idea of talking to him about it.
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