She was an indignant queen, no doubt she was alarmed and disgusted within limits; but she was highly excited, and there was something, some low adventurous strain in her being, some element, subtle at least if base, going about the rioting ways and crowded insurgent meeting-places of her mind declaring that the whole affair was after all—they are the only words that express it—a very great lark indeed. Her husband sat in a chair beside her bed, his head in his hands. “Will you be moral and your species, or immoral and yourself? We’ve decided to be immoral. She thought she had hidden well from him. Lucy spoke once they had turned the corner.
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