womanhood become articulate, talking to her lover.
“I ought,” I said, “never to have loved you.”
“It wasn't a thing planned,” she said.
“I ought never to have let our talk slip to that, never to have turned back from America.”
“I'm glad we did it,” she said. “Don't think I repent.”
I looked at her.
“I will never repent,” she said. “Never!” as though she clung to her life in saying it.
I remember we talked for a long time of divorce. It seemed to us then, and it seems to us still, that it ought to have been possible for Margaret to divorce me, and for me to marry without the scandalous and ugly publicity, the taint and ostracism that follow such a readjustment. We went on to the whole perplexing riddle of marriage.