It was not due to shyness: it was the inherent instinct of the Woman, a protective fear that she must retain some elements of mystery in order to hold the interest of the male. “He writes very well,” said Ann Veronica. “No, John, you won’t understand. I have never been wrong about the sex of an unborn child. Guiltily, she felt very little for him, and yet she wondered what he would be like. He pretended to be unaware of the mishap. He reached out a hand gropingly, sagged, and toppled out of the chair to the floor, where he lay very still. The cell in which she was confined was about six feet long and four wide; the walls were scored all over with fantastic designs, snatches of poetry, short sentences and names,—the work of its former occupants, and of its present inmate. "Don't weep, my love," replied the lady, straining him still more closely to her. Still, one has to be reasonable.
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