I see that I am a beast—I beg your pardon, bête—and an imbecile, and an idiot. The policeman raised his voice, slightly agitated. If he died, here in this hotel, who would care? Or if she died, who would care? A queer desire blossomed in her heart: to go to him, urge him to see the folly of trying to forget. Heaven knows what dim and tawdry conceptions of passion and desire were in that blond cranium, what romance-begotten dreams of intrigue and adventure! but they sufficed, when presently Ann Veronica went out into the darkling street again, to inspire a flitting, dogged pursuit, idiotic, exasperating, indecent. The word "criticism" had no concrete meaning to her then; no more than "compromise. ” “To a friend?” “To lodgings—alone. Keep it! Keep it!” Part 6 They walked a long way that afternoon.
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