His conscience, however, was entirely another affair. She was writhing to get her hands loose and found herself gasping with passionate violence, “It’s damnable!—damnable!” to the manifest disgust of the fatherly policeman on her right. “Why can’t you tell people that you are what you are? Why all the secrecy?” She looked beyond the farmhouse. “It’s best,” he said, “to make it a good round sum. What you said wanted saying. It was as if she had grown right past her father into something older and of infinitely wider outlook, as if he had always been unsuspectedly a flattened figure, and now she had discovered him from the other side. I hate what I am.
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