"Aren't you afraid?" "Of what?"—serenely. She had not chosen her life, but she was foggy on whether or not it was right to deny others the right to join her in her suffering. But I was portentous, I can assure you. What sort of a standard of life yours may be I do not know, yet in your heart you know very well that every word you have spoken to me has been a veiled insult, every time you have come into my presence has been an outrage. The mother was far more real to her than the father; the ghostly far more substantial than the living form. Loneliness—something that was almost physical: as if the vitality had been taken out of the air she breathed. Their idea of maidenly innocence was just a blank white—the sort of flat white that doesn’t shine. She was nude and horribly maimed.
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