She wanted to cry out upon herself for the uttermost fool in existence. Thinking of Mantua, she wandered to the courtyard. Talked about his years, his position and his constituents, and always sneaked off back to his hotel just when the fun was going to begin. And with his clenched hand he struck him a violent blow in the face. The struggle had dislodged the white wimple, which was evidently too large for her, and her black hair broke free, whirling like a whiplash about her head as her hands curled into fists, coming up to beat at his chest, her little teeth bared for attack. She took up one of her father’s novels and put it down again, fretted up to her own room for some work, sat on her bed and meditated upon the room that she was now really abandoning forever, and returned at length with a stocking to darn. No one spoke to her. The Night-Cellar XVIII. For a moment she remained silent. “And for me it has been Pride and Pride and Pride! “I am the prodigal daughter.
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