For a time she looked at no more apartments, and walked through gaunt and ill-cleaned streets, through the sordid under side of life, perplexed and troubled, ashamed of her previous obtuseness. “I will tell you something if you like. And how can I get into one brief letter the complex accumulated desires of what is now, I find on reference to my diary, nearly sixteen months of letting my mind run on you— ever since that jolly party at Surbiton, where we raced and beat the other boat. You must tell me what it all means. For a long time to come that would naturally be the theme of any story he undertook to write. Never mind, I’ve got plenty.
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