"You feel it is awful rot?"
"No—."
"What then?"
"It depends if you mean to publish it?"
I leaned back and laughed—bitterly! the realization that she understood so completely that it was only a "soulagement"—an "asperine" for me, so to speak as the Duchesse said—cut in like a knife. I had the exasperated feeling that I was just being pandered to, humored by everyone, because I was wounded. I was an object of pity, and even my paid typist—but I can't write about it.
Miss Sharp started from her chair, her fine nostrils were quivering, and her mouth had an expression I could not place.
"Indeed, it is not bad," she said—"You misunderstand me—."
I knew now that she was angry with herself for having hurt me—and that I could have made capital out of this, but something in me would not let me do that.
"Oh—it is all right—" I replied, but perhaps my voice may have been flat and discouraged—for she went on so kindly.
"You know a great deal about the subject of course—but I feel the chapters want condensing—May I tell you just where?"