She read the form—the agreement to take each other as lawful husband and wife and to regard the contract as in all respects binding and legal.
"Do you understand it?" laughed he nervously, for her manner was disquieting.
"Perfectly."
"You stared at the paper as if it were a puzzle."
"It is," said she.
"Come into the library and we'll sign and have it over with."
She laid the papers on the dressing table, took up her brush, drew it slowly over her hair several times.
"Wake up," cried he, good humoredly. "Come on into the library." And he went to the threshold.
She continued brushing her hair. "I can't sign," said she. There was the complete absence of emotion that caused her to be misunderstood always by those who did not know her peculiarities. No one could have suspected the vision of the old women of the dive before her eyes, the sound of the hunchback's piano in her ears, the smell of foul liquors and foul bodies and foul breaths in her nostrils. Yet she repeated:
"No—I can't sign."