“I will go and get the suppe.”
Jan rose; her bright head and grey shoulders went up above the lamplight, darkening to steady massive outlines, strongly moving as she padded and fluttered briskly out of the room.
The rich blur of the room free of the troubling talk and the swift conversational movements of the two, lifted and was touched with a faint grey, a suggestion of dawn or twilight, as if coming from the hidden windows. Mag sat motionless in her chair, gazing into the fire.
“... Wise and happy infant, I want to ask your opinion.”
Miriam roused herself and glanced steadily across. The outlines of things grew sharp. She could imagine the room in daylight and felt a faint sharp sinking; hungry.
“I’m going to state you a case. I think you have an extraordinarily sharp sense of right and wrong.”
“Oh no.”
“You have an extraordinarily sharp sense of right and wrong. Imagine a woman. Can you imagine a woman?”
“Go on.”
“Imagine a woman engaged to a man. Imagine her allowing—another man—to kiss her.”