Then it came to her with a shock, as an extraordinary oversight, that she could never tell Manning about Ramage—never. I am the cause of his ill-usage. He smiled inwardly. And, fearing you might not come to me, I forced my way hither, even with certainty of discomposing your friends. Since morning he had become fanatical; the atoms of common sense no longer functioned in the accustomed groove. She would come back and write letters, carefully planned and written letters, or read some book she had fetched from Mudie’s—she had invested a half-guinea with Mudie’s—or sit over her fire and think. But she doesn’t and won’t divorce me. Her dainty shoes were soiled with dust and there was a great tear in her skirt.
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