He had but accepted the fact of him without repugnance, had been fond of him as a queer sort of kind elder cousin.
Then there was Aunt Barbara.

Aunt Barbara, Michael allowed, had understood a good deal; she had pointed out with her unerringly humourous finger the obstacles he had made for himself.
But could Aunt Barbara understand the rapture of living which this one week of liberty had given him?
That Michael doubted.

She had only pointed out the disabilities he made for himself.

She did not know what he was capable of in the way of happiness.

But he thought, though without self-consciousness, how delightful it would be to show himself, the new, unshelled self, to Aunt Barbara again.
A laughing couple went tapping down the street below his window, boy and girl, with arms and waists interlaced.