He kept at it even on those nights when the monsoon began to break with heavy storms and he had to weight down with stones everything on his table. She drew it out with shaking fingers. The cloth was removed, and Wood, drawing the table as near the window as possible—for it was getting dusk —put on his spectacles, and opened that sacred volume from which the best consolation in affliction is derived, and left the lovers—for such they may now be fairly termed—to their own conversation. And she had been doubting since that walk in the Zoological Gardens whether, indeed, he did simply care for her. She didn’t like the shops, she didn’t like the other women’s faces; she thought the smirking men in frock-coats who dominated these establishments the most intolerable persons she had ever had to face.
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