He felt that he was getting on with her very slowly indeed, but he did not see how he could get on faster. Her eyes glistened in the darkness—for light was only admitted through a small grated window—like flames, and, as she fixed them on him, their glances seemed to penetrate his very soul. I would not think so of you, Marthe. Besides, I don't think he's going to ask, if that is what you are getting at. It was cheating, pitiful cheating. . ” She looked thoughtfully into the fire. “Don’t you understand? It is I whom you cared for in Paris, not Anna.
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