Will you let your servant call me a hansom,” she continued, opening the door before he could reach her side. She wallowed for a time in the thought of Capes, unable to escape from his image and the idea of his presence in her life. The act was mechanical, a bit of sparring for time: his anger was searching about for a new vent. She spent a very disagreeable afternoon and evening—it was raining fast outside, and she had very unwisely left her soundest pair of boots in the boothole of her father’s house in Morningside Park—thinking over the economic situation and planning a course of action. I don’t care if you never tell me any of your secrets. She leaned back as he climbed on top of her and kissed her mouth again.
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