‘That’s why I never told Joan Ibstock that you were still with me when I wrote. He stood a little anxious and fussy, bothered by the responsibility of her, entirely careless of what her life was or was likely to be, ignoring her thoughts and feelings, ignorant of every fact of importance in her life, explaining everything he could not understand in her as nonsense and perversity, concerned only with a terror of bothers and undesirable situations. And if she was ever found living in the area like that, homeless, John could somehow find out. “I have never yet met a man whose intellect I could respect. E. She’s already spoken for.
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