The chromatic fiction with which he relieved his mind glanced but slightly at this aspect of life, and never with any quality of guidance. "I've waited supper, you perceive. On the one hand, she seemed to think plainly and simply, and would talk serenely and freely about topics that most women have been trained either to avoid or conceal; and on the other she was unconscious, or else she had an air of being unconscious—that was the riddle—to all sorts of personal applications that almost any girl or woman, one might have thought, would have made. 47 was no more than a sort of railway compartment on the way to that.
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