He stood there, large and dark, enunciating, in his clear voice from beneath his large mustache, clear flat sentences, deliberately kindly. And we’re going to fight that old world down there. She had just this moment past told him that Monsieur Valade came to her after the tragedy, to the convent, from where he married her and brought her to England. Ann Veronica found herself in a little stirring crowd of excited women, whispering and tittering and speaking in undertones. All the best novels have been written by women, and yet see how men sneer at the lady novelist still! There’s only one way to get on for a woman, and that is to please men. It’s no good. He was in a position to help her. That he was immolating Ruth on the altar of his conscience never broke in upon his thought for consideration. “I’m sorry, ma’am, to seem the cause of any disturbance, but this,” he pointed to Anna, “is my wife.
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