When I am angry, I can get very mean. It was not due to shyness: it was the inherent instinct of the Woman, a protective fear that she must retain some elements of mystery in order to hold the interest of the male. "One whom you may perhaps have forgotten," replied the stranger, "but who can never forget the kindness he experienced at your hands, or at those of your excellent husband. Sometimes I tremble, Anna, to think how near I came to passing through life without a single glimpse, a moment’s revelation of this greatest and most awful of mysteries, the mystery of primaeval nature. He’s a prig to the finger-tips, is Sir John—doesn’t know what an artist is. Put him in the stocks, and there let him sleep off his drunken fit. Just now my best ones are all taken.
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