I knew he was doing it for some wicked reason.
I knew the look in his eyes and the awful, agreeable smile on his mouth.
When he said at last, 'If you could help my poor wife to find comfort in such things,' I began to see.

I could not explain to anyone how he did it, but with just a sentence, dropped here and there, he seemed to tell the whole story of a silly, selfish, American girl, thwarted in her vulgar little ambitions, and posing as a martyr, because she could not have her own way in everything.

He said once, quite casually, 'I'm afraid American women are rather spoiled.' And then he said, in the same tolerant way--'A poor man is a disappointment to an American girl.
America does not believe in rank combined with lack of fortune.' I dared not defend myself.

I am not clever enough to think of the right things to say.

He meant Mr.Ffolliott to understand that I had married him because I thought he was grand and rich, and that I was a disappointed little spiteful shrew.