Sheppard. Then she sat watching the play, sometimes offering a helpful suggestion, sometimes letting her attention wander to the smoothly shining arms she had folded across her knees just below the edge of the table. It was in no sense confessional; it was a state of mind in the patient the doctor had already anticipated. There was no marriage, and I hated, oh, how I hated the man. Rank ingratitude, I call it. Even unbelieving biological demonstrators must respect decorum; and besides, you see—you were a student. “Thank you,” she said coolly. Playing became a way of escape. One’s got to be a better man than one’s father, or what is the good of successive generations? Life is rebellion, or nothing.
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