She would become defensive—what she did would be the thing that mattered. If he died, here in this hotel, who would care? Or if she died, who would care? A queer desire blossomed in her heart: to go to him, urge him to see the folly of trying to forget. I saw her come out from the flat buildings two minutes before we entered it last night. Sheppard heaved a deep sigh, and opened her eyes, which now looked larger, blacker, and more melancholy than ever. Even that he was an interfering person, if he walked through that door this moment, she would fling herself at him and weep all over his chest. The man’s passion was infectious. That is what I don't understand.
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