‘Tell me the truth, Melusine. She was looking anxiously at the entrance to the restaurant. As much as it killed her, she kept her mouth shut. There was no broken faith—not even any question of anything of the sort. A victim of one of those mental typhoons that scatter irretrievably the barriers of instinct and breeding; and he had gone on the rocks all in a moment. She spent the morning up to ten in writing a series of unsuccessful letters to Ramage, which she tore up unfinished; and finally she desisted and put on her jacket and went out into the lamp-lit obscurity and slimy streets.
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