This time there wasn't any doubt. "The danger's past," whispered Bess. She closed the book that she had been pretending to read and gathered her black umbrella and her backpack, a childish accoutrement she despised. He would make her rub her lips with waxes and other ointments, precursors of lipsticks. If this idiotic marriage is binding then I will be her friend. Oh, I’ve loved love, dear! I’ve loved love and you, and the glory of you; and the great time is over, and I have to go carefully and bear children, and—take care of my hair—and when I am done with that I shall be an old woman.
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