It is no more a murder, but a duel, you understand. She spent the morning up to ten in writing a series of unsuccessful letters to Ramage, which she tore up unfinished; and finally she desisted and put on her jacket and went out into the lamp-lit obscurity and slimy streets. On taxing his recollection, the whole circumstance rushed to mind with painful distinctness. Used to play together, we did, all over Remenham House. It’s obvious you have eyes for someone else. Be kind to her. Why? He could preach the Word and deny Love!—tame the savage heart, succour broken white men!—pray with his face strained with religious fervour! The idea made her dizzy because it was so inexplicable.
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