’ Pierced to the heart by the poignancy of this utterance, Gerald could neither move nor speak. Ah, if I had written that!" "Don't you want to live?" "I don't know; I really don't know. Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg. It was not due to shyness: it was the inherent instinct of the Woman, a protective fear that she must retain some elements of mystery in order to hold the interest of the male. And if he didn’t, what was the good of seeing him? “I wish he was a woman,” she said, “then I could make him my friend.
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