IV
After that Sunday call, Gyp sat in the window at Bury Street close to a bowl of heliotrope on the window-sill. She was thinking over a passage of their conversation.
“Mrs. Fiorsen, tell me about yourself.”
“Why? What do you want to know?”
“Your marriage?”
“I made a fearful mistake—against my father's wish. I haven't seen my husband for months; I shall never see him again if I can help it. Is that enough?”
“And you love him?”
“No.”
“It must be like having your head in chancery. Can't you get it out?”
“No.”