Henry Handel Richardson, Maurice Guest — Part I, Chapter V (1908)
“ You don’t know Lulu. I am her master, I tell you. She can’t call her soul her own.”“And yet,” said Krafft, unmoved, “it’s a fact all the same.”Schilsky applied a pair of curling tongs to his hair, at such a degree of heat that a lock frizzled, and came off in his hand. His anger redoubled. “Is it my fault that she acts like a wet-nurse? Is that what you call being under her thumb?” he cried.Furst tried to conciliate him and to make peace. “You’re a lucky dog, old fellow, and you know you are. We all know it—in spite of occasional tantaras. ”
