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But then she had not had a child.
Lately she had realized that there were forces in her of which she had
not been aware. She had realized her passion for her child. Was it
strange that she had not always known how deep and strong it was? Her
mutilated life was more vehemently centred upon Vere than she had
understood. Of Vere she could be jealous. If Vere put any one before
her, trusted any one more than her, confided anything to another
rather than to her, she could be frightfully jealous.
Recently she had suspected--she had imagined--
Restlessly she moved on her bed. A mosquito-curtain protected it. She
was glad of that, as if it kept out prying eyes. For sometimes she was
ashamed of the vehemence within her.
She thought of her friend Emile, whom she had dragged back from death.
He, too, had he not drifted a little from her in these last days? It
seemed to her that it was so. She knew that it was so. Women are so
sure of certain things, more almost than men are ever sure of
anything.


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