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She glanced at the Frenchman, and found him struggling with the portrait that was embedded around his scalp. In all her life no living thing had had to depend upon her, not even a dog or a cat. She felt that perhaps, in her desire to play an adequate part in the conversation, she had talked rather more freely than she ought to have done, and given him a wrong impression of herself. Oh, I’ve loved love, dear! I’ve loved love and you, and the glory of you; and the great time is over, and I have to go carefully and bear children, and—take care of my hair—and when I am done with that I shall be an old woman.
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