‘What the devil for?’ ‘Messenger,’ Gerald explained. This formality irked her: she wanted to play a little, romp. Over one of the pinnacles of the tower a speck of pallid light marked the position of the moon, then newly born and newly risen. Better check on Remenham House, I suppose. She had a feeling at his departure as of an immense cavity, of something enormously gone; she could not tell whether it was infinite regret or infinite relief. It seemed to make her sister downcast beyond any precedent. There he sat, cheerfully friendly in his sex’s freedom—the man she loved, the one man she cared should unlock the way to the wide world for her imprisoned feminine possibilities, and he seemed regardless that she stifled under his eyes; he made a jest of all this passionate insurgence of the souls of women against the fate of their conditions.
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