She rambles continually about Jack, and her husband, and that wretch Jonathan, to whom, as far as can be gathered from her wild ravings, she attributes all her misery. And I suppose it is too much to expect that any entirely English young lady would be prepared to tolerate me for the remainder of my life. One day it was gone. “Did you see who that was?” he asked in a low tone. It’s an emerald. She knew, or guessed his mission too, for more than once their eyes met, and she laughed mockingly at him. At least that, I think, is what makes a clever woman’s independent career so much more difficult than a clever man’s.
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