To walk beside him, dressed akin to him, rucksacked and companionable, was bliss in itself; each step she took was like stepping once more across the threshold of heaven. Mr. Imbecile. It was a port of call, since fortnightly a British mail-boat dropped her mudhook in the bay. I’m right again now. “What have I been all this time?” she asked herself, and answered, “Just stark egotism, crude assertion of Ann Veronica, without a modest rag of religion or discipline or respect for authority to cover me!” It seemed to her as though she had at last found the touchstone of conduct. Your history, your actions, nay, your very thoughts are better known to me than to your spiritual adviser.
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