“You will go and see her,” he begged. The effort of self-repression cost him a sob. “In a sense—yes. “The white unaggressive woman who corrects and nurses and serves, and is worshipped and betrayed—the martyr-queen of men, the white mother. There was a look in her eyes which puzzled him. ” He said as Cathy took his coat and alternately handed him back his bouquet of red roses. “I’m sorry. Oh, and weeks and months of thought and feeling there are bottled up too. Forgive my daring. He tore it down just as the Wastrel rose, wavering slightly.
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