" "My dear," observed Wood, "you should be more charitable—" "Charitable!" repeated his wife, "that's your constant cry. “I know nothing about your wife. “Have you heard things?” The tears stood in her eyes. “But I’m afraid you are going to be in a hopeless minority here as regards me. "And now," she added, with somewhat more composure, "leave me, dear friends, I entreat, for a few minutes to collect my scattered thoughts—to prepare myself for what I have to go through—to pray for my son. It reminded her of one of the old tales her mother Marina had told her about a sculptor named Farhat. Would you tell her … now?" his eyes flaming with mockery. Nature is a mother; her sympathies have always been feminist, and she has tempered the man to the shorn woman. He found Martin hovering around her, Brown off checking with the audio engineers.
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