She walked through the office to the door, aimlessly. “By Jove!” he broke out, “one tries to take a serious, sober view. . “And where are YOU going?” he said. Or else—Else it will be impossible that I can be his friend. I didn’t think—I don’t know what I thought. Either you have had to love people or hate them—which is a sort of love, too, in its way—to get anything out of them. We’re handfuls. She came to spend hours with the bastard children that the women brought, dressing and feeding the tiny ones, inventing games for the older ones. If Winifred remained silent, her looks would have disarmed a person of less assurance than the woollen-draper. Yes—as he would have liked. Instead, they lived a Bohemian existence, moving from patron to patron, city to city.
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