“But what are you going to do?” asked Hetty. She turned the gas up in her little sitting-room, and sank wearily into an easy chair. "I have nearly done," replied the stranger. These were so outside her experience that she found it possible to thrust them almost out of sight by saying they would be “all right” in confident tones to herself. I would have liked to know. She had first picked up the fiddle back when it was still called a viol, that was how long she had been at it. Then she sat down—uninvited— and looked from one to the other curiously. You do not love your husband, you have married him for a position —to escape from—things which you feared.
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