He admitted that it had once been his. He had seen his wife that was to be, placable, as Jinny said, sane flesh and blood, the mother of perfect children.
"And so, of course," said Jinny, "you go and marry me."
"Of course," said Brodrick. He said it in the voice she loved.
"Why didn't you marry her? She wouldn't have bothered your life out." She paused. "On the other hand, she wouldn't have cared for you as I do. That sort of woman only cares for her children."
"Won't you care for them, Jinny?"
"Not as I care for you," said Jinny.
And to his uttermost amazement she bowed her head over his hands and cried.
XXXVI
Tanqueray's book was out. Times and seasons mattered little in a case so hopeless. There was no rivalry between George Tanqueray and his contemporaries; therefore, his publishers had not scrupled to produce him in the same month as Jane Holland. They handled any work of his with the apathy of despair.