She was always interfering between Wenham and me and imagining the most absurd things.

One day she left us without a word of warning.

I have never seen her since." The man stared gloomily into his plate.
"She was a queer little thing," he muttered.

"She was good, and she seemed to like being good." Elizabeth laughed, not quite pleasantly.
"You speak as though the rest of us," she remarked, "were qualified to take orders in wickedness." He helped himself to more brandy.
"Think back," he said.

"Think of those days in New York, the life we led, the wild things we did week after week, month after month, the same eternal round of turning night into day, of struggling everywhere to find new pleasures, pulling vice to pieces like children trying to find the inside of their playthings." "I don't like your mood in the least," she interrupted.
He drummed for a moment upon the tablecloth with his fingers.
"We were talking of Beatrice.