She was slender, and sometimes she seemed tall, and walked and carried herself lightly and joyfully as one who commonly and habitually feels well, and sometimes she stooped a little and was preoccupied. She glanced at him and made a dismissive gesture. “What made you think” he said, abruptly, with the gleam of avidity in his face, “that love makes people happy?” “I know it must. He grabbed her hair viciously and whispered loudly into her tear-streaked face. If there is, it’s a mere wrapping—there’s better underneath. A stout female stood in the aperture, an oil lamp in her hand.
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