She went into his room when he was partially undressed. She did not notice the curious, glad gleam of pure hatred, with which he looked at her. She stood near the door, with her hand behind her.
“I have been thinking, Gerald,” she said, with an insulting nonchalance, “that I shall not go back to England.”
“Oh,” he said, “where will you go then?”
But she ignored his question. She had her own logical statement to make, and it must be made as she had thought it.
“I can’t see the use of going back,” she continued. “It is over between me and you—”
She paused for him to speak. But he said nothing. He was only talking to himself, saying “Over, is it? I believe it is over. But it isn’t finished. Remember, it isn’t finished. We must put some sort of a finish on it. There must be a conclusion, there must be finality.”