“Don’t you know, child, that this is torture for me? What in God’s name more can you have to tell me?” Her face had become almost like a marble image. ’ Roding’s voice changed. I don’t quite know why. “Next door,” said a spectacled young person of seventeen or eighteen, with an impatient indication of the direction. He had not thought to find a lady so ready of humour and willing to give him a hearing. She would then hear his feet pounding up the steps and he would burst into whatever room she was sitting in and say, “There she is! My wife! Hiding her beauty from the world!” He would then run to her, grab her book or embroidery and unceremoniously toss them to the floor. In a second the glass lay shattered upon the carpet.
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