He loved Ann Veronica, he said; he was so mad to have her that he defeated himself, and did crude and alarming and senseless things. But it’s as you say. “We are, or rather we were, so much alike then that the portrait of either of us would have done for the other. If I am to have no other opportunity I will speak before them. It was a large, littered, self-forgetful apartment, decorated with unframed charcoal sketches by various incipient masters; and an open bookcase, surmounted by plaster casts and the half of a human skull, displayed an odd miscellany of books—Shaw and Swinburne, Tom Jones, Fabian Essays, Pope and Dumas, cheek by jowl. I am ready to wait for you, to wait your pleasure, to give all my life to winning it. I followed you home on the train.
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