She remained for some seconds crouching at the fender, poker in hand. She passed him silently as she dropped Michelle’s dried corpse into the open clay pit awkwardly, like a discarded doll. “Why should women be dependent on men?” she asked; and the question was at once converted into a system of variations upon the theme of “Why are things as they are?”—“Why are human beings viviparous?”—“Why are people hungry thrice a day?”—“Why does one faint at danger?” She stood for a time looking at the dry limbs and still human face of that desiccated unwrapped mummy from the very beginnings of social life. He stood upon the threshold, dangling his eye-glasses in his fingers, stolid, imperturbable, mildly interrogative. The small bed’s hospital corners had been put into disarray by Michelle’s crying fit. He was so depressed and disheartened that he did not then believe he would ever write again. That for you!" And she snapped her fingers in his face.
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