“Perhaps one talks nonsense about a woman’s instinct,” she said. “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. Sir John felt hot and furious. Her heart full of dread, she dragged on it. “P. He seemed to be thinking hard. But I waited in vain. For her mother to betray her seemed inevitable, but the betrayal seemed worse than her fate. That a longing of hers should be realized in this strange fashion was difficult to believe: it vaguely suggested something of a trap.
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