” He was arrested for a moment by an indistinct picture of Veronica reading this last sentence. “YOU wouldn’t like to be independent?” he asked, abruptly. She turned off the light and approached the window. The taste of his sweat was intoxicating, like sweet brandy, like blood. He was a fool. It’s—it’s a social difference. Tell him the truth, Annabel. “And now,” she said, splintering the surviving piece of coal into indignant flame-spurting fragments with one dexterous blow, “what am I to do? “I’m in a hole!—mess is a better word, expresses it better.
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