Then suddenly her spirit rose in revolt. But "fine" is the word. What a pity! But why? There was no way over this puzzle, nor under it, nor around it: that men should drink, knowing the inevitable payment. It must be somewhere hereabouts. I love everything to-day, and all of you, but I love this, this—this innocence upon us most of all. It was better even than the hymn-singing. Her mind invoked her husband, who she imagined lying dead in a ditch somewhere, tortured and killed by brigands or perhaps eaten by creatures like herself, a fate he actually deserved. It was cheating, pitiful cheating.
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