” “You do not understand me at all,” she declared. ‘There was a priest, the father confessor, you understand. “Do not be frightened, dear,” she said. On the one hand, she seemed to think plainly and simply, and would talk serenely and freely about topics that most women have been trained either to avoid or conceal; and on the other she was unconscious, or else she had an air of being unconscious—that was the riddle—to all sorts of personal applications that almost any girl or woman, one might have thought, would have made. ” She looked at her toes. Later, she understood his reasons; and it had now become habit. The meat was coarse and disagreeably served.
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