If hate could kill, Ramage would have been killed by a flash of hate. He stood a little anxious and fussy, bothered by the responsibility of her, entirely careless of what her life was or was likely to be, ignoring her thoughts and feelings, ignorant of every fact of importance in her life, explaining everything he could not understand in her as nonsense and perversity, concerned only with a terror of bothers and undesirable situations. Perhaps an hour later he would begin again. And taking the keys, he departed on the errand. But how could you get—Who gave you credit? “You see,” said Ann Veronica, “my landlady kept on my room while I was in Holloway, and the fees for the College mounted up pretty considerably. They went on talking in the train—it seemed to her father a slight want of deference to him—and he listened and pretended to read the Times. She looked at him mournfully. I followed you home on the train.
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