“I”—he seemed to have a difficulty with the word—“I love you. The one profession, the one decent profession, I mean, for a woman—except the stage— is teaching, and there we trample on one another. ‘I do not know your Gérard. She reflected upon that with a thrill of terror that was also, somehow, in some faint remote way, gleeful. Think! Had you not better hurry back before Sir John discovers? You are his wife right enough. To be near someone, even someone who made a pretense of friendliness, to hear voices, her own intermingling, would serve as a rehabilitating tonic.
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