Believe me, Anna. It wasn’t pretty. It did not shock her; it amazed her, interested her beyond measure. She followed Oxford Street into Holborn, and then she inquired for Chancery Lane. It was horrible, but she must do it. “In self-defence I had to,” she answered. She had never felt so cold, she felt even colder than she had in the water. Beyond was a narrow bridge, crossing a circular building, at the bottom of which lay a deep well. “And to think that it’s not a full year ago since I was a black-hearted rebel school-girl, distressed, puzzled, perplexed, not understanding that this great force of love was bursting its way through me! All those nameless discontents—they were no more than love’s birth-pangs. Her mother informed her of the betrothal on the first painful day of her menarche, shortly after her eleventh birthday. “Damn”.
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