To his intense satisfaction, Melusine bit her lip on a tremor. “I don’t want children, Lucy. Had he had the child to think of, he might have recovered from his grief at Mary’s death. But think of the disillusionment! Except for our sex we have minds like men, desires like men. Nor is Theresa, or even Thérèse. It can wait a bit longer. He gave you a poison. ‘Now what?’ The girl’s voice was shaking, and there were, he saw now, angry tears in her eyes. He could not pull her soul apart now to satisfy that queer absorbing, delving thing which was his literary curiosity; he had put her outside that circle. “Odd!” he remarked, rather surprisingly, after a little interval. “Good-looking rascal she met at Worthing. There’s something—puppyish in a man’s usual attitude to women. "You hay'n't hurt your arm, I trust, my dear?" he added, anxiously. She broke a cobblestone over his head and he was out. Something in her lack of embarrassment irritated him.
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