‘Jacques?’ she called out, forgetting the need for silence. She heard the sounds of Rhea scuttling about, and then feeding, brutally. He crawled underneath the covers with her. She could think of nothing more to say. For a time she looked at no more apartments, and walked through gaunt and ill-cleaned streets, through the sordid under side of life, perplexed and troubled, ashamed of her previous obtuseness. I want to shout! I want to sing! I am glad! I am glad to be alive because you are alive! I am glad to be a woman because you are a man! I am glad! I am glad! I am glad! I thank God for life and you. But that was soon put right, and she walked out into London with a peculiar exaltation of mind, an exaltation that partook of panic and defiance, but was chiefly a sense of vast unexampled release. You feel that that smile is for you, the words are for you, the whole song is for you. “Well, I don’t know,” she said thoughtfully. She was surprised to find how stored her mind was with impressions and memories of him, how vividly she remembered his gestures and little things that he had said. ‘To take a baby all the way to France without a wet-nurse. ” Ennison took an easy chair.
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