Cathy Beck was outraged. The unfortunate carpenter struggled violently, but ineffectually. ‘What’s more,’ went on Martha, ‘I knew something Mr Charvill didn’t, or he wouldn’t so readily have left it behind him. I had left Paris. Morgan the trader did not haggle over the pearls, but gave me at once what he judged a fair price. Then she would have quiet times, in which she would say to herself, “Now look here! Let me think it all out!” For the first time, it seemed to her, she faced the facts of a woman’s position in the world—the meagre realities of such freedom as it permitted her, the almost unavoidable obligation to some individual man under which she must labor for even a foothold in the world.
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