He grunted, and his grip gave. She sat drawn together in her chair in the corner of the box, at a loss what to say or do—afraid, curious, perplexed. He had diverged only a little from the truth when he said that his chief interest in life was women. ‘Truth is, it’s Gerald who’s put me in the devil’s own temper, ma’am. ” She was silent. But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him. “But if you weren’t keen on the suffrage business, why on earth did you go to prison?” Ann Veronica reflected.
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