‘My wife would say she is English a little. Earles. She realized more and more the quality of the brink upon which she stood—the dreadful readiness with which in certain moods she might plunge, the unmitigated wrongness and recklessness of such a self-abandonment. He yelled to her, asking her if she wished to have a drink with him, which she refused. "I'm at your mercy, Poll," rejoined Kneebone, abjectly. What a pity! For all her ignorance of material things—the human inventions which served the physical comforts of man—how much she knew about man himself! She had seen him bereft of all those spiritual props which permit man to walk on two feet instead of four—broken, without resilience. You might tell the truth to some men, but never to him. She calls us her guests, but in reality we are her prisoners.
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