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“It’s—it’s a difficult question. ‘Quite mad, nuns are. E. ” She was frightened—his anger always did frighten her—and in her resolve to conceal her fright she carried a queen-like dignity to what she felt even at the time was a preposterous pitch. “Don’t you understand? It is I whom you cared for in Paris, not Anna. He had not been successful as the world counted success; the fat bank-account, the filled waiting room of which he had once dreamed, had never materialized except in the smoke of his evening pipe. “I confess it.
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