Restlessness, then, was the trouble, simple restlessness: home bored her. Every rule is against me—Why did I let you begin this? I might have told—” “I don’t see that you could help—” “I might have helped—” “You couldn’t. Fame of any sort was folly and she knew better. Marriage! … without the least conception of the physical and moral responsibilities! It's a crime, Mac!" "But what can you do?" McClintock turned to the manager. Then she sat down—uninvited— and looked from one to the other curiously. I have an idea that you are in some sort of trouble. She, however, had no idea of doing anything of the sort. Puffy blue curtains dressed every oakstained window. Steeples toppled, and towers reeled beneath its fury. He walked in her direction.
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