“I care nothing, not one crow’s-feather, for your pretty, brainless Gerda!” she cried, standing quite close to him, her left hand on the handle of the silver cake-basket which formed the centre of the tea-table, and her right hand opening and shutting as if it were galvanized. “I’ve been good to her, to please you; and I’ve been made a fool of for my trouble. Don’t you think I don’t know how little I count any more in your life, Wolf? Nothing⁠ ⁠… nothing⁠ ⁠… nothing! You just come and see me. You flatter me and cajole me. But you never stay! Do you realize you haven’t stayed one night under the same roof with me, since you married? Oh, it’s all right! I don’t complain. I’m growing an old woman; and old women aren’t such pleasant companions as brainless little girls! Oh, it’s all right! But it’s a funny experience, this being shelved and superannuated while your feelings are just as young as anyone’s!”

Her voice, as she let herself be overwhelmed by a blind rush of accumulated self-pity, began to break and choke; and then, all in a moment, it rose to a terrible, ringing intensity, like the sound of a great sea-bell in a violent storm.⁠ ⁠…