She gave a short laugh out of which the joyful irresponsibility had died.
"Men love ideas—the fetishes of their intellects. Or they love their cabbage-patch, or their country. Life and humanity are nothing to the majority. But you cared—for everything." It was a long time before she spoke again, and then her voice had changed. It sounded languid—indifferent. "It must be terrible to kill," she said.
He stirred, drawing himself up.
"The unforgettable sin," he said.
"Unforgettable? Have you ever known any one who had killed——?"
"Yes. It was worse than killing. He smashed his man—crippled him for life."
"Perhaps he didn't care."
"He cared desperately. He thought of life as I do——"
She laughed again.
"Another Tolstoyan! Well, he was punished, I suppose."