Then she would have quiet times, in which she would say to herself, “Now look here! Let me think it all out!” For the first time, it seemed to her, she faced the facts of a woman’s position in the world—the meagre realities of such freedom as it permitted her, the almost unavoidable obligation to some individual man under which she must labor for even a foothold in the world. Oh, what’s his name? It’s on the tip of my tongue. I need you every day. ‘Jarvis Remenham was your mother’s father. ’ He frowned again. McClintock wrote me about you; but all I needed was the sight of your face as it was a moment gone.
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