“My dear,” she began, with an affectionate hand on Ann Veronica’s shoulder, “I do SO wish you would realize how it grieves your father. What a pity! But why? There was no way over this puzzle, nor under it, nor around it: that men should drink, knowing the inevitable payment. That poor child, trying to escape, and not knowing how. To wait for hours and hours for the night! The sea empty for days! You forgot the monotony, the endless monotony, that bends you and breaks you and crushes you—you forgot that!" Her voice had steadily risen until it was charged with passionate anger. “On or about the day you receive this letter, Anna, the six months will be up. I’ve never had these crying fits before. If not, I'll take a cheerful glass with you at the City of Oxford, on my way to Tyburn. Rhea writhed and scuttled about like a crab.
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