‘Here you, Pottiswick. He grasped Lucilla’s elbow. She was writhing to get her hands loose and found herself gasping with passionate violence, “It’s damnable!—damnable!” to the manifest disgust of the fatherly policeman on her right. There one is! The same stuff still! One has a craving in one’s blood, a craving roused, cut off from its redeeming and guiding emotional side. Habits and tastes are no longer the same. He barely shook the rose petals from her hair. But you had better know the truth to start with. He would always see the picture of the huge, raw-boned Dutchman, haranguing and thundering the word of God into the dull ears of South Sea Islanders, who, an hour later, would be carrying fruit penitently to their wooden images. The noise was raucous. He’d borne mention of the woman’s name. I went to the theatre that night. Wood, contemptuously. ‘Again?’ Another simple parry. She rapped again, louder. I might forgive him that, for he obviously taught her a good deal that she has found useful.
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