‘She won’t. They give themselves airs, but so it is. "What! you still hesitate! Will that rouse you, coward?" And she gave him a smart rap on the head. ’ *** Martha sniffed dolefully, scrubbing at her reddened eyes with a large square of damp linen. The more she disentangled the lines of her situation the deeper grew her self-disgust. He remembered it suddenly. At the present moment she was living in a world of her own creation, a carnival of brave men and fair women, characters out of the tales she had so newly read for the first time. His literary instincts were reviving. The word "criticism" had no concrete meaning to her then; no more than "compromise. Or I should have made love to you long ago. I am ready to wait for you, to wait your pleasure, to give all my life to winning it. “You mustn’t say anything more to your mother, Michelle.
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