She tried to imagine herself “getting something,” to project herself as sitting down at a desk and writing, or as returning after her work to some pleasantly equipped and free and independent flat. But he would die if he continued in this course. She too had seen. She could not part with dignity. “Maternity,” she said, “has been our undoing. As a matter of fact, I had never spoken to him before in my life. ‘You had better kill me, mademoiselle, because otherwise I shall end by strangling you. Only her face was clear, frail and delicate, almost flower-like, with the sad haunting eyes ever watching his.
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