I am afraid because I love you, so that the mere thought of failure hurts. She leaned forward in her chair, as if petrified in fear by the scary story. Annabel, I was lying. Jim is up to the neck in Mahatmas and Theosophy and Higher Thought and rot—writes letters worse than Alice. I don't know what you have done; I don't want to know now. There, hanging among Ann Veronica’s more normal clothing, was a skimpy dress of red canvas, trimmed with cheap and tawdry braid, and short—it could hardly reach below the knee. There was no sense in creating further difficulties for herself by arguing with the sergeant over her identity.
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