‘I wish you joy of the wench. Free, there is nothing left to her but the canal. Yeah, I’m thirty-seven. She thought of the marvellous beauty of skin, and all the delightfulness of living texture. She would wake in the night to repeat her bitter cry: “Oh, why did I burn those notes?” It added greatly to the annoyance of the situation that she had twice seen Ramage in the Avenue since her return to the shelter of her father’s roof. ‘He arst me to find him someone who might go with you. And yet the moment I am safely out of the way you are content to dress yourself in my rags, to go and get yourself popular and admired and successful, all on my reputation. It is simply our point of view which is altogether different. If individuality means anything it means breaking bounds— adventure.
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