You did not see me, I know. Restlessness, then, was the trouble, simple restlessness: home bored her. “You can’t imagine,” he said, “what a beastly thing a furtive love affair can be. Ireton, you are in league with him. The London backgrounds, in Bloomsbury and Marylebone, against which these people went to and fro, took on, by reason of their gray facades, their implacably respectable windows and window-blinds, their reiterated unmeaning iron railings, a stronger and stronger suggestion of the flavor of her father at his most obdurate phase, and of all that she felt herself fighting against. A bobbing lantern, crossing the bridge—for she had not drawn the curtain—attracted her attention.
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