He was just getting cross about your being late for dinner—you know his way—when it came. “I think that I will leave this letter for him,” she said. “Why should women be dependent on men?” she asked; and the question was at once converted into a system of variations upon the theme of “Why are things as they are?”—“Why are human beings viviparous?”—“Why are people hungry thrice a day?”—“Why does one faint at danger?” She stood for a time looking at the dry limbs and still human face of that desiccated unwrapped mummy from the very beginnings of social life. “How old are you?” “Sixteen. She could still smell the now familiar scent of him on the girl's body in the makeshift grave.
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