“Why do you hate me again, my love?” He seemed to brighten, feeding upon the intensity of her emotion. But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him. ‘You don’t know the whole, child. The doorbell tinkled and Michelle grabbed her purse and rushed down the creaky wooden stairs. Over the sea of heads arose a black and dismal object. ” She batted his arms and slapped him, angrily twisting from his grasp. Or did he? Perhaps he had found another.
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