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He stood a little anxious and fussy, bothered by the responsibility of her, entirely careless of what her life was or was likely to be, ignoring her thoughts and feelings, ignorant of every fact of importance in her life, explaining everything he could not understand in her as nonsense and perversity, concerned only with a terror of bothers and undesirable situations. My garden-close would be a better thing than that. “I would like to go home,” she cried, “to please her. It was her distinctive test of an emotional state, its interference with a kindly normal digestion. Only a book detective could dope this out. She had found the mausoleum underneath a broken monument.
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