The servants had left the room. "This young fool is come to restore the article—whatever it may be—which Lady Trafford was anxious to conceal, and which his companion purloined. Her white shirt was mired with a central bloodstain, his pants caked with mud. So your name must be Americanized? What country? It sounds Spanish. The voices went into his ears but left no impression of their import. The recollection of all her unhappiness, the loveless years, the unending loneliness, the injustice of it, rolled up to her lips in verbal lava. "How, Sir?" "Except by adoption. Somehow her walk home with him had been transmogrified into a melodramatic rejection, a slamming. He took her there on the cold, dirty floor, his nails digging into her back, his teeth sinking into her breasts.
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