He did the greater part of the talking. Told her, a good deal to his own
surprise, stories of his early life in London--a chapter he'd never
been willing to refer to, except in the vaguest terms, to anybody else.
He told her, too, with more and more freedom and explicitness, as he
discovered how straight and honest her mind was, how eager it was for
facts instead of for sentimental refractions of them, about certain
emotional adventures of his as he was emerging into manhood, and of the
marks they had left on him.
All told, she learned more about men, as such, from him than ever she
had learned, consciously at least, from Rodney. She'd never been able to
regard her husband as a specimen. He was Rodney, _sui generis_, and it
had never occurred to her either to generalize from him to other men, or
to explain any of the facts she had noted about him, on the mere ground
of his masculinity. She began doing that now a little, and the exercise
opened her eyes.
In many ways Galbraith and her husband were a good deal alike.
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