“My wife’s name is Sylvia. She’s pretty and prim and worships her figure. You can imagine what she thinks of mine! She’s always been afraid because of her waistline to have a baby. But before Sylvia came along, there was Sadie. The first love of my youth. She was thirty then. Now she’s fifty. Fat and sentimental, good old maternal Sadie. She’d love to have children. But how can she? She’s so respectable ... she’s so ill-placed in a hard world. She’s been true to me, has Sadie. Sadie envies Sylvia her marriage license ... the chance she has to have a brood of kiddies. Sylvia despises Sadie, is above jealousy (Sadie’s a part of the landscape) and tells herself in her heart what a far better kept-lady she’d have made, what better times she’d have had ... _she’d_ not have been true to me!... if only she were free and immoral like that fat old foolish thing.” “Why do you tell me all this terrible farce?” “I want you to know that I know women.” “How should I know it from that?” “These misplaced women love me ... they’re my fate.” “All of your fate?” “Not all.” “I don’t know, Mr. Johns, why you should assume my interest in all this....” He got up. “Fanny, there’s more between us than that.” “What do you want?” She was frightened. “I want you to see me, as I see you. Not understand me. Understanding’s rot. I don’t understand you. What in hell _do_ we understand? What counts is seeing. Touching. What we see and touch is part of us.” She stirred.--My words! “You’re part of me ... you ... because I see you there, attached to me like a hand. That’s what I want.” “You’re a fool. You had better try to understand a little. You don’t know a thing about me.” “I don’t want to, then. It’s good you called me a fool. That’s the beginning of warmth, and warmth is the beginning of wisdom. Pretty soon you’ll have to blind yourself in order not to see me. You’ll see me, alright. You don’t want to blind yourself?” He went on: “Never another word shall I say about my two appendages ... my simpering Sylvia and my grandiose Sadie. But you’ll touch it all. You’ll see what that life is ... you’ll look at me: you’ll see what a lot’s left over....” Fanny got up from her chair. She stood blazing. Sudden she laughed and sat down. He came to her and lifted her in his arms. His big body covered her. He kissed her eyes and her brow, her ears and her hair. “Aren’t you ashamed,” she murmured. “Aren’t you ashamed!” He placed her back in her chair. They breathed hard. Silence. She looked at this looming man. He was brutal, she felt him gentle. He was abrupt, she felt him slow like a child. He was big, she felt he needed arms to cradle. “Leave me alone!” sudden she cried. “I am a lost creature. Don’t pick me up. Leave me.” He knelt by her chair. “I have a husband who has kicked me out. I have a child I’m not good enough to touch.” His hands curled. “Fanny, you lie.”