Her thoughts took words for themselves. I’m in a mess—a nasty mess! a filthy mess! Oh, no end of a mess! “Do you hear, Ann Veronica?—you’re in a nasty, filthy, unforgivable mess! “Haven’t I just made a silly mess of things? “Forty pounds! I haven’t got twenty!” She got up, stamped with her foot, and then, suddenly remembering the lodger below, sat down and wrenched off her boots. He would discuss something she had been reading, and he would give her some unexpected angle, setting a fictional character before her with astonishing clearness. Already she missed all of her fine things, her linens and leather bound books. “Oh. . . ‘Well, young man,’ he said, ‘we haven’t seen you lately,’ and something about ‘Bateson & Co. As she started, rearing up her head, a hand stole about her mouth and closed down hard. The beach: to get there as quickly as he could, to reach the white man's nadir of abasement and gather the promise of that soothing indifference which comes with the final disintegration of the fibres of conscience. She lingered over donning her winter coat, buttoning each toggle and placket, double knotting her long scarf. Then he sat down and filled his pipe slowly and thoughtfully.
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