" "You paint yourself worse than you are, dear Mrs. Bit priggish, isn’t it? And if he only knew it—so absurd. “No. “I’ll never be happy again! I hate you! But most of all, what you have made me! A flesh-eating demon cannibal, just like you! I should be dead, dead and lying at the bottom of the sea. He did make her perceive something of the acute, tormenting desire for her that had arisen in him and possessed him. She went about in a negligent November London that had become very dark and foggy and greasy and forbidding indeed, and tried to find that modest but independent employment she had so rashly assumed. ” “But how did you tell him? You’ve never told me.
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