For the first time Henry lost sight of the fact that Sylvia was a woman.

He seemed to see her as a separate human soul, sexless and free, intent upon her own ends, which might be entirely distinct from his, and utterly unknown to him.
Rose turned her tear-wet face towards him.

"Oh, Uncle Henry," she sobbed, "Aunt Sylvia is worrying over something, and she won't tell me." "Nonsense," said Henry.
"Yes, she is.

Horace and I both know she is.

She won't tell me what it is.