Sir John looked about him, and somehow the laugh died away. She saw herself begin a slow, sinuous dance: and stop suddenly in the middle of a figure, conscious that the dance was not impromptu, her own, but native—the same dance she had quitted but a few minutes gone. She was aware of it now as if it were a voice shouting outside a house, shouting passionate verities in a hot sunlight, a voice that cries while people talk insincerely in a darkened room and pretend not to hear. ‘Ah, non,’ exclaimed the husband. The spinsters—who on the morrow would vanish out of the girl's life for ever—had already left their imprint upon her imagination. There was just a minute’s hesitation before they gave her a room. If he senses fear in the touch of your hand, he'll give you trouble. ‘So it is that you could not help it.
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