He felt that he might soon be separated—perhaps, for ever—from the fond little creature he held in his arms, whom he had always regarded with the warmest fraternal affection, and the thought of how much she would suffer from the separation so sensibly affected him, that he could not help joining in her grief. It isn’t because you’re good, but because I may be rotten bad; and there’s something—something living and understanding in you. "Whose grave is this?" he inquired of a man who was standing near it. To-night all London believes that he was your husband. His hands were exploring her once again in the car. 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 you don’t know what led to our separation. You're an angel of goodness. She surveyed accommodation that seemed at first merely austere, and became more and more manifestly inadequate as the moments fled by.
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