But you! Why the devil did you marry her? That's the thing that confounds me. She had been to San Francisco, and what I learned about the world was from her. 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. ‘You can’t go to England. She came in while he was still in the throes, conviction battling with commonsense, his own apprehension. I have often felt before that it is only when one has nothing to say that one can write easy poetry.
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