She looked directly at his face, his perpetually graying hair, his hawkish nose, his long cheekbones. Profoundly. She walked with an easy quickness down the Avenue and through the proletarian portion of Morningside Park, and crossing these fields came into a pretty overhung lane that led toward Caddington and the Downs. Spurlock, filled with self-mockery, sat in a chair on the west veranda. He contrasted the lot of women in general with the lot of men, presented men as patient, self-immolating martyrs, and women as the pampered favorites of Nature. ‘Do not say such things, you—you imbecile.
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