The girl had told him distinctly that her name was Anna. He looked at her with an expression of comical despair. She indicated the captain who had retired behind the sofa. She was at the end of girlhood and on the eve of a woman’s crowning experience. He began a jerky, broken conversation that lasted until they reached the station, and left her puzzled at its drift and meaning. But he was always forcing her to say and do such unexpectedly conclusive things. The girl stood with her hands behind her back, sulky, resolute, and intelligent, a strand of her black hair over one eye and looking more than usually delicate-featured, and more than ever like an obdurate child. Indeed it was apparent, from the likeness between them, that they were nearly related. Play foul, and win. But she doesn’t and won’t divorce me. There you are, the best client’s chair. Then she slowly straightened, releasing him.
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