. . . And so goes the round of
your life. What good on earth are you, anyhow? You're just a--a
gratification to the senses of your husband. And at that you don't see much
of him."
"Carley, how you rave!" exclaimed her friend. "What has gotten into you
lately? Why, everybody tells me you're--you're queer! The way you insulted
Morrison--how unlike you, Carley!"
"I'm glad I found the nerve to do it. What do you think, Eleanor?"
"Oh, I despise him. But you can't say the things you feel."
"You'd be bigger and truer if you did. Some day I'll break out and flay you
and your friends alive."
"But, Carley, you're my friend and you're just exactly like we are. Or you
were, quite recently."
"Of course, I'm your friend. I've always loved you, Eleanor," went on
Carley, earnestly. "I'm as deep in this--this damned stagnant muck as you,
or anyone. But I'm no longer blind. There's something terribly wrong with
us women, and it's not what Morrison hinted."
"Carley, the only thing wrong with you is that you jilted poor Glenn--and
are breaking your heart over him still."
"Don't--don't!" cried Carley, shrinking. "God knows that is true. But
there's more wrong with me than a blighted love affair.
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