She noticed how he laboured in his breathing.
"Have you been running ?" she asked.
"We had to run for the train." "You'll go and knock yourself up.

You'd better drink hot milk." It was as good a stimulant as he could have, but he refused and went to bed.

There he lay face down on the counterpane, and shed tears of rage and pain.

There was a physical pain that made him bite his lips till they bled, and the chaos inside him left him unable to think, almost to feel.
"This is how she serves me, is it ?" he said in his heart, over and over, pressing his face in the quilt.

And he hated her.