"I alone am to blame. Easy enough. . On the day he carried the manuscript to Copeley's he brought back a packet of letters, magazines, and newspapers. That’s— that’s my private life. Occasionally the mere fact of lying in bed became unendurable, and she rolled out and marched about her room and whispered abuse of herself—usually until she hit against some article of furniture. He threw her on the bed. ” Her elation teetered in mid-air for a second, then began to flutter down around her like a badly-built house of cards. "I don't think he would leave me, even if I could part with him," observed Mrs. Ice had begun to form in the shallows.
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