As though accidentally she swept her skirts from a chair close drawn to her own. But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him. “Thank you. His subconscious sensed the unnaturalness of it and recoiled. Do you think I would marry you? Rather would I marry the pig in the convent. Every home is a little recess, a niche, out of the world of business and competition, in which women and the future shelter. Naturally you shout yourself hoarse when she has finished, and feel jolly pleased with yourself.
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