” “I hope,” he answered, looking at her in some surprise, “that we shall have many more such to think about. She addresses you as the Flower of the Lotus, as the Resplendent Moonbeam. She was aware of it now as if it were a voice shouting outside a house, shouting passionate verities in a hot sunlight, a voice that cries while people talk insincerely in a darkened room and pretend not to hear. You are my wife now and you belong to me. O God! O God!" And he appeared convulsed with agony. Her sadness was manageable only because she was so familiar with its phases, because she could observe its moods remotely, like an astronomer studying the moon.
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