The fact that it was her trusted friend making illicit love to her remained, in spite of all her effort, an insignificant thing in her mind. All the rest is humbug and delicacy. Oh, I’ve loved love, dear! I’ve loved love and you, and the glory of you; and the great time is over, and I have to go carefully and bear children, and—take care of my hair—and when I am done with that I shall be an old woman. My mother died the day I was born; that’s what they tell me. Perhaps an hour later he would begin again. “All your dreadful scientific things?” he said, with a smile that Miss Klegg thought extraordinarily kindly. I really am enjoying it. One day her mother swept into the bedroom of the family townhouse, sweeping across the floor with a bundle in her arms. “The plain common-sense of the case,” he said, “is that we can’t possibly be lovers in the ordinary sense.
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