Too many. ” “That is so,” Anna admitted. Her eyes were dilated— fixed in a horrified stare at the parting in the curtains which hung before the window. “He does not come here,” she exclaimed, quickly. ” “Did you tell him of the registry office?” “No—o—certainly not so emphatically as I did about the play. Guiltily, she felt very little for him, and yet she wondered what he would be like. Love stories!… A sob rushed into her throat, and to smother it she buried her face in a pillow. Was that it? Had she clothed this unhappy young man with glamour? Or was it because he was so alone? She could not get through the husks to the kernel of what really actuated her. Her white shirt was mired with a central bloodstain, his pants caked with mud. In her case the barrier was not selfishness but the perception that her interest would be misinterpreted, naturally.
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