He felt his heart beat faster and faster—his self-restraint slipping away. “What do you mean, hanging round with my wife?” he answered fiercely. She had never expected John capable of saying such things, of thinking such macabre ideas. She wanted to return his gaze but focused intently on a spot next to and above the brick fireplace, as her music teachers had always taught her to do instead of looking directly at the audience. "Spare me!" Jonathan, however, instead of answering him, searched for his knife, with the intention of severing his wrist. Every inch of the house felt safe to her, small and welcoming. Or become a thorough-going typist and stenographer and secretarial expert. You would rather live like the scum of the earth, in that little brown hovel you call a house, in bourgeois paradise. Ramage’s bitterness passed as abruptly as his aggression. Jove, he didn’t take to it kindly, I can tell you.
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