Why shouldn’t we be martyrs? There’s nothing else for most of us, anyhow. What right had she to call herself “Alcide”? It was abominable, an imposture. How she learned of her heritage I do not know, but you need not imagine that it is greed that drives her. ” She was silent for a time, with her nose on the pillow, and that brought her to: “What’s the good of pretending? “I love him,” she said aloud to the dim forms of her room, and repeated it, and went on to imagine herself doing acts of tragically dog-like devotion to the biologist, who, for the purposes of the drama, remained entirely unconscious of and indifferent to her proceedings. “It is the same man, Annabel,” she said. She had been obliged to spend the night in that fateful bedchamber, the faithful Kimble—who had foraged at a nearby inn, bringing back a large pie and a jug of porter for his mistress—guarding the door outside. And so she came upon the word Love.
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