They are arbitrary and unjust and dogmatic and brutish and lustful. If only there had not been this single torturing thought—a mere pin-prick, but still curiously persistent. “You belong to me,” he said fiercely; “the marriage certificate is in my pocket. “But I—I went to Nigel Ennison for help. One married as he wished and one against his wishes, and now here was Ann Veronica, his little Vee, discontented with her beautiful, safe, and sheltering home, going about with hatless friends to Socialist meetings and art-class dances, and displaying a disposition to carry her scientific ambitions to unwomanly lengths. You must let me take you to things—to meetings and things, to conferences and talks. He looked no longer at his wife.
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