The love that such as I can give a woman can find its only true expression in desiring and contriving her happiness.

But that she should sway back to Leonard Boyce--no, no.

I could not bear it.

All the shuddering pictures of him rose up before me, the last, that of him standing by the lock gates and suddenly running like a frightened rabbit, with his jaunty soft felt hat squashed shapelessly over his ears.
Gedge could not have invented that abominable touch of the squashed hat.
I have said that possibly I myself might give Boyce an inkling of the truth.

Thinking over the matter in my restless bed, I shrank from doing so.