She was sick of herself, of her life, of everything but him; and for him all her masked and hidden being was crying out. She put a stool for him at a little distance from her own, and after he had seen the day’s work he hesitated, and then plunged into a resumption of their discussion about beauty. The charm of innocence breathes around her, as fragrance is diffused by the flower, sanctifying her lightest thought and action, and shielding her, like a spell, from the approach of evil. Under this unnerving scrutiny, a slow flush mounted to the woman’s cheeks. Drink the toast, Jack.
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