Or had she, like himself, been held up until the fellow returned to town? He waited, his ready humour anticipating her likely reaction. She was her mother’s child, fair of face, doted upon and spoiled by her attentions. She required no instructions from books; her wit and beauty were her own. “Why should women be dependent on men?” she asked; and the question was at once converted into a system of variations upon the theme of “Why are things as they are?”—“Why are human beings viviparous?”—“Why are people hungry thrice a day?”—“Why does one faint at danger?” She stood for a time looking at the dry limbs and still human face of that desiccated unwrapped mummy from the very beginnings of social life. My late husband, I mean. Perhaps what urged her interest in the young man's direction was the dead whiteness of his face, the puffed eyelids and the bloodshot whites. A man, then, rushed up the entry, and, seizing the unlucky carpenter by the collar, presented a drawn sword to his throat.
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