“Don’t you know, child, that this is torture for me? What in God’s name more can you have to tell me?” Her face had become almost like a marble image. “How have you been, my dear? Up to no good, I see. "I'm prudence personified. “You see,” he said, “you are like an inaccessible gold-mine in all this sort of matter. But underneath this tolerance there is always the vague hope that your manhood will someday reassert itself. Nigel, do you know that I have been very jealous?” He avoided the invitation of her eyes. “The white unaggressive woman who corrects and nurses and serves, and is worshipped and betrayed—the martyr-queen of men, the white mother.
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