‘But I don’t trust you an inch. It isn’t illusions—for us. For her mother to betray her seemed inevitable, but the betrayal seemed worse than her fate. He would have to go on; he would be forced to enact all the obligations he had imposed upon himself. 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. “Run in now. He cannot. ‘You imbecile. I am sure. ’ ‘Don’t start arguing again, for God’s sake,’ snapped Roding irritably, dragging out his own large pocket-handkerchief.
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