“I suppose I should let go if I had. Perhaps this was the real turning point: the hour in which the disordered mind began permanently to readjust itself. A white apron was tied round his waist, and into the apron was thrust a short thick truncheon, which looked very much like a rolling-pin. She saw the Chamberlain girls getting into a plethora of different cars (with barely a stitch on) with young men who seemed unnaturally excited about their first “dates”. His invalid wife and her money had been only the thin thread that held his life together; beaded on that permanent relation had been an inter-weaving series of other feminine experiences, disturbing, absorbing, interesting, memorable affairs. I don’t care. "Do you realize that you are several kinds of a damned scoundrel?" he began.
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