“Don’t you think I ought to?” she asked, very submissively. “Fred,” he said, “do you remember taking me to dinner at the ‘Ambassador’s,’ one evening last September, to meet a girl who was singing there? Hamilton and Drummond and his lot were with us. He noted that she was fully dressed, that her hair was carefully done, that there was a knotted ribbon around her throat. Blueskin and the Minters were dragging Wood to the pump. The great gray boles of the palms reminded him of some fabulous Grecian temple. She realized dimly that there was no personal thing behind his cry, that countless myriads of Mannings had “My God!”-ed with an equal gusto at situations as flatly apprehended. " "Meaning that I don't belong anywhere, in heaven or on earth?" "Meaning that you must cut off the wing or grow another to mate it.
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