’ ‘Nonsense. Diane Vorsack clicked her tongue in a “tsk”. "I don't know," she answered vaguely. He was a civil servant of some standing, and after a previous conversation upon aesthetics of a sententious, nebulous, and sympathetic character, he had sent her a small volume, which he described as the fruits of his leisure and which was as a matter of fact rather carefully finished verse. She pointed across the road. “Think of what people will say!” That became a refrain. I can esteem him, regard him; but, love him as he ought to be loved—that I cannot do. She wanted to cry out upon herself for the uttermost fool in existence. Cut to pieces —slashed—bloodied.
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