It was just a shabby, stupid, furtive business that began between us. She doesn't love you; she hasn't the least idea what it means beyond what she has read in novels. It was not only that her father had said all sorts of inconsistent and unreasonable things, but that by some incomprehensible infection she herself had replied in the same vein. "For my part, I don't think you ever quite got over the accident you met with on the night of the Great Storm. He shall expiate his offences on the gibbet. But if he speaks—I fear what he may tell. I shall have no faith in future in bolts and bars. “Call me Cathy, John.
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