’ ‘This, monsieur le major, is entirely your own affair,’ said the lady, haughty again. "Where am I?" she cried, passing her hand across her brow. ‘He lacked moral fibre, did Nicholas. A solemn consideration, when I enter a great city at night, that every one of those darkly clustered houses encloses its own secret; that every room in every one of them encloses its own secret; that every beating heart in the hundreds of thousands of breasts there, is, in some of its imaginings, a secret to the heart nearest it!' … It kind of terrifies me," said Ruth, looking up, first at the face of her husband, then at McClintock's.
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