Now I’d like the rest of your story. He was really very proud of her, and extraordinarily angry and resentful at the innocent and audacious selfreliance that seemed to intimate her sense of absolute independence of him, her absolute security without him. One of her duties, after she had been taught to read, had been to read aloud after breakfast and before going to bed. On this side was a razor with which a son had murdered his father; the blade notched, the haft crusted with blood: on that, a bar of iron, bent, and partly broken, with which a husband had beaten out his wife's brains. But some day she would find a place to love: there would be rosy apples on the boughs, and there would be flurries of snow blowing into her face. One doesn’t go about with these passions allayed simply because they have made wreckage and a scandal. The Supper at Mr.
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