“Why not?” He repeated, demanding. Bit priggish, isn’t it? And if he only knew it—so absurd. ‘You said—who?’ ‘Remenham. She never touched the manuscript with pencil, but jotted down her notes on slips of paper and left them where he might easily find them. He wrote poems to her beauty that he recited from a seemingly infinite memory. She felt scrawny, lanky, badly dressed in a baggy black T-shirt, sweaty, not at all beautiful; not even pretty. "Where is it?" "Are you the mother of this child?" inquired the person who had first spoken, addressing Mrs. She looked into his eyes, truly noticing their gray color for the first time. She had intended to be quietly dignified, but he was in a smouldering rage from the beginning, and began by assuming, which alone was more than flesh and blood could stand, that the insurrection was over and that she was coming home submissively.
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