207 She romanced a dark-haired farmer a few times, having long since forgotten his name. She stood looking down upon him with dilated eyes. Her sense followed the shoulders under his coat, down to where his flexible, sensitive-looking hand rested lightly upon the table. The father would be all steel. She reminded him sometimes of the one holy and ineffable Madonna, at others of Berode, the great courtezan of her day, who had sent kings away from her doors, and had just announced her intention of ending her life in a convent. "Where am I?" she cried, passing her hand across her brow. The doctor would naturally offer a hundred objections; he might seriously interfere; so he must be forestalled.
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