“All these days I have taken her for you. Sheppard, averting her face to hide her tears. He wrote poems to her beauty that he recited from a seemingly infinite memory. In the discussion there was the oddest mixture of things that were personal and petty with an idealist devotion that was fine beyond dispute. Sometimes she missed her cue and nodded affirmatively when the gesture should have been the reverse; and Prudence would send her a sharp glance of disapproval. And at the thought of that other lover—he was convinced that that beloved person was a lover, and she found herself unable to say a word to explain to him that this other person, the person she loved, did not even know of her love—Ramage grew angry and savage once more, and returned suddenly to gibe and insult.
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