She never had been much of a looker, but she had stopped worrying about such things long ago. She became as The Tigress, a free thing. ” She was silent for a time, with her nose on the pillow, and that brought her to: “What’s the good of pretending? “I love him,” she said aloud to the dim forms of her room, and repeated it, and went on to imagine herself doing acts of tragically dog-like devotion to the biologist, who, for the purposes of the drama, remained entirely unconscious of and indifferent to her proceedings. When she tried to speak she found it difficult.
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