Part 8 And as she sat on her bed that night, musing and half-undressed, she began to run one hand down her arm and scrutinize the soft flow of muscle under her skin. "Sit down, fool!" "Jack," said Kneebone, who had been considerably interested by the foregoing scene, "are these regrets for your past life sincere?" "Suppose them so," rejoined Jack, "what then?" "Nothing—nothing," stammered Kneebone, his prudence getting the better of his sympathy. “The plain common-sense of the case,” he said, “is that we can’t possibly be lovers in the ordinary sense. She never even graduated high school, and that has been a thorn in her side ever since. And this great mellow place, this London, now was hers, to struggle with, to go where she pleased in, to overcome and live in. “There is my aunt,” she said. She longed to own something lasting, anything, but knew her wishes to be stupid. “I love this warm end of summer more than words can tell,” he said. "She's glorious!" He knew that he must hoodwink this keeneyed Scot, even as he must hoodwink everybody: publicly, the devoted husband; privately, the celibate. But your cracked skull is by no means a pleasing spectacle. And you’d better have her fetch in some food for the missie, an’ all.
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