“Last time I saw you,” he reminded her, “you spoke, did you not, of obtaining some employment in London. She would wake in the night to repeat her bitter cry: “Oh, why did I burn those notes?” It added greatly to the annoyance of the situation that she had twice seen Ramage in the Avenue since her return to the shelter of her father’s roof. She was thinking fast now, all her senses on the alert. Men and women are not established things; they’re experiments, all of them. “Oh Christ! How old were you?” “Just—well, I was young. She turned there, clasped her hands behind her back and put up her chin. “A ballot-box, you know,” he said, “is very largely just a box.
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