’ ‘The what, miss?’ asked Kimble, frowning. ’ ‘In a way she had been,’ said Prudence. Ramage, by a hundred skilful hints had led her to realize that the problem of her own life was inseparably associated with, and indeed only one special case of, the problems of any woman’s life, and that the problem of a woman’s life is love. ‘But you know. She has married some one he could not approve of, and gone right away. They don’t know who did it, actually. “Don’t you know, child, that this is torture for me? What in God’s name more can you have to tell me?” Her face had become almost like a marble image. Aren't we funny? And just as I was beginning to lose faith in human beings, to have someone like this come along! It is almost as if she were acting a rôle, and she isn't. Mr. Henry Clay, thirteen cents in Hong-Kong and two-bits in that dear old New York.
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