“It’s the centre of the intellectuals. She stood among them, watching them and feeling curiously alien to them. “Not a bit of it,” he said; “it’s only a score in a game. I see that I am a beast—I beg your pardon, bête—and an imbecile, and an idiot. ’ ‘How could he when he didn’t even handle it himself? Went off, I told you, and left it all to me. He had gained admission somehow, and he too was waiting for Anna. It doesn't annoy me; it only disturbs me. I suppose that’s the gist of the whole thing. ” “I hope that you may,” Anna answered enigmatically. To think of him as loving her would make all that different.
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