She took up a book and threw it down again. ‘And me?’ ‘Oh, you’re mad because you wish to blow off my head. But one changes the style of one's clothes yearly. There was only one idea in his head now—to batter and bruise and crush this weakling, then cast him at the feet of his love-lorn wife. He was not addicted to monologue, and the only audible comment he permitted himself at first upon a universe that was evidently anything but satisfactory to him that afternoon, was one compact and entirely unassigned “Damn!” The word must have had some gratifying quality, because he repeated it. But you need not fear,’ she added, shaking him off. “And think, think”—her voice sank —“of the horrible coarseness!” “What coarseness?” said Ann Veronica.
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