The expression, however, which would chiefly have interested a beholder, was that of settled and profound melancholy. She had not at first the power for concealment. Towards this box Sharples directed his steps, and, unlocking a hatch in the door, disclosed a recess scarcely as large, and certainly not as clean, as a dog-kennel. His face was a little flushed perhaps, and his small, brown eyes were bright. She always left the table when they began to smoke. Her specialty is the central thing in life, it is life itself, the warmth of life, sex—and love. For all that she was of exceptional intellectual enterprise, she had never yet considered these things with unaverted eyes.
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