Mrs. Cricklander was burning with rage and a sense of impotency. She
felt her words and all her arts of pleasing were being nullified, and
that she was up against an odious situation in which her strongest
weapons were powerless. It made her nervous and very cross. She
particularly resented not being able to ascertain the cause of the
change in him, and felt personally aggrieved at his still being a
wretched wreck hobbling with a stick. He ought to have got quite well by
now--it was perfectly ridiculous. What if, after all, he would not be
worth while? But the indomitable part of her character made her
tenacious. She felt it was a different matter, throwing away what she
had won, to having to relinquish something that she knew she had never
really gained. She would make one more determined effort, and then, if
he would not give her love, he should be made to feel his bondage, she
would extort from him to the last ounce, her pound of flesh.
"John, darling," she said, slipping her hand into his, under the rug as
they drove, "this beautiful place makes me feel so romantic.
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