“I might have muddled for a time. A dozen books lay upon the counterpane. No one spoke, and she was impelled to flounder on. “And yet,” he said, “you bid me talk cheerfully, or not at all. Everywhere I went and rapped at a door I found behind it another dreadful dingy woman—another fallen queen, I suppose— dingier than the last, dirty, you know, in grain. You know as well as I do that it was accident. When it came time to eat once again, she hid out on the beach, a remote fastness beyond the city walls, a swampy morass that everyone avoided. Laughed at me, then. I have only just left Wych Street. ’ ‘Eh bien? And so?’ ‘He says as how he’s going to take you with him to France with his new wife.
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