B. She floundered deep. ‘Hang it all, Mrs Sindlesham is right! You are two of a kind. I think I asked if I could eat lunch with her and Trisha Deere one day and she said there was no room at the table. The room was worse than pokey, it was shabby; and the view from the window, of chimney pots and slate roofs, wholly uninspiring. The prison was two stories high, with a flat roof surmounted by a gilt vane fashioned like a key; and, possessing considerable internal accommodation, it had, in its day, lodged some thousands of disorderly personages. But tell me one thing I don’t understand—tell me one thing: How can you help it by coming down into the battle and the mire? That’s the thing that concerns me. That old chap has a remarkable range in reading. And her kind of love forgives everything and anything but infidelity. People of your sort—I don’t want the instincts to—to rush our situation.
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