"That's impossible," she said, emphatically. "Impossible."
"Impossible, M's. Lytton?"—wiping her eyes.
"Yes, Nora."
"But why? He loves you!"
"When you were here before you gave the reason—I'm a married woman."
"But that ain't.... Why, do you love your husband?"
She grasped Ann's arm and shook it gently as she put that question in a voice that the tears had made hoarse, and leaned forward to catch the answer. For an interval Ann did not reply, gave no sign that she had heard, and Nora repeated her query with impressive slowness.
"It isn't a question of loving, Nora," she finally said. "I'm his wife; I have a wife's duty to perform."
"But do you love him?" the girl persisted.
"No, I don't any more ..."—sadly, yet without regret.