"She never looked back at us," said Mrs. Fyne. "She just followed him
out. I've never had such a crushing impression of the miserable
dependence of girls--of women. This was an extreme case. But a young
man--any man--could have gone to break stones on the roads or something
of that kind--or enlisted--or--"
It was very true. Women can't go forth on the high roads and by-ways to
pick up a living even when dignity, independence, or existence itself are
at stake. But what made me interrupt Mrs. Fyne's tirade was my profound
surprise at the fact of that respectable citizen being so willing to keep
in his home the poor girl for whom it seemed there was no place in the
world. And not only willing but anxious. I couldn't credit him with
generous impulses. For it seemed obvious to me from what I had learned
that, to put it mildly, he was not an impulsive person.
"I confess that I can't understand his motive," I exclaimed.
"This is exactly what John wondered at, at first," said Mrs. Fyne. By
that time an intimacy--if not exactly confidence--had sprung up between
us which permitted her in this discussion to refer to her husband as
John.
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