She liked the high, easy swing of the thing over its big wheels, the quick clatter-patter of the horse, the passage of the teeming streets. If she’s over, he probably knows all about it. And from that point they went on to a thoroughly embittering wrangle. "Where are you going?" she asked. “The doctor has asked me to give them my reasons—for shooting myself. He reminds me of a slave I once had in Rome with those sullen dark eyes and that wistful pout. Hitherto she had seen it chiefly in pictures and other works of art, incidentally, and as a thing taken out of life. And still you interest yourself in my affairs. The imbecile. I’ve got imagination. From other obscure hints dropped by the speakers, Mrs.
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