She was sick of herself, of her life, of everything but him; and for him all her masked and hidden being was crying out. Wood and Thames taking their places on either side of it, and Jack at a little distance behind. She stopped abruptly, and looked in a flower-shop window. You must forgive the poet’s license I take. His heart was beating, but faintly and slowly, with ominous intermissions. She made lumpish and inadequate interruptions rather than replies. It plucked shingles from the school building, threatening to shake them all loose one by one like rotting teeth. To-night there seemed to be a new brilliancy in her eyes, a deeper quality in her tone.
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