“How could it not have hurt?” His analytical side started putting in overtime. She realized dimly that there was no personal thing behind his cry, that countless myriads of Mannings had “My God!”-ed with an equal gusto at situations as flatly apprehended. Go to her, I say, and take her in your arms, you poor benighted Ironsides! I can't make you see. In a convent, you understand, one is like a servant, even if one is a lady. He hadn't played fair. The preparations to meet him were immense, roses were planted everywhere, white and drooping with honeyed fragrance.
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