“It has been like falling out of a prison from which one never hoped to escape. I feel like a moth that has just come out of its case,—you know how they come out, wet and weak but—released. For a time I feel I can do nothing but sit in the sun.”
“It’s queer,” she repeated, “how one tries to feel differently from what one really feels, how one tries to feel as one supposes people expect one to feel. At first I hardly dared look at myself.... I thought I ought to be sorrowful and helpless.... I am not in the least sorrowful or helpless....
“But,” said Mr. Brumley, “are you so free?”
“Yes.”
“Altogether?”
“As free now—as a man.”
“But——people are saying in London——. Something about a will——.”
Her lips closed. Her brows and eyes became troubled. She seemed to gather herself together for an effort and spoke at length, without looking at him. “Mr. Brumley,” she said, “before I knew anything of the will——. On the very evening when Isaac died——. I knew——I would never marry again. Never.”
Mr. Brumley did not stir. He remained regarding her with a mournful expression.
“I was sure of it then,” she said, “I knew nothing about the will. I want you to understand that—clearly.”