Anna leaned over so that he needed only to whisper. Her name, he said, was as pretty as its wearer. She thought that women were not made for the struggle and turmoil of life— their place was the little world, the home; that their power lay not in votes but in influence over men and in making the minds of their children fine and splendid. She reflected upon that with a thrill of terror that was also, somehow, in some faint remote way, gleeful. Knowing the South Seas from hearsay and by travel, he knew something of that inertia which blunted the fineness, innate and acquired, of white men and women, the eternal warfare against indifference and slovenliness. Did he track her? She was unaware if he did. If you don’t like it, I won’t be mad, I promise. Sheppard.
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