had some. What you are is a foul, deathly thing, obscene, that’s what you are, obscene and perverse. You, and love! You may well say, you don’t want love. No, you want YOURSELF, and dirt, and death — that’s what you want. You are so PERVERSE, so death-eating. And then — ’

‘There’s a bicycle coming,’ he said, writhing under her loud denunciation.

She glanced down the road.

‘I don’t care,’ she cried.

Nevertheless she was silent. The cyclist, having heard the voices raised in altercation, glanced curiously at the man, and the woman, and at the standing motor-car as he passed.

‘ — Afternoon,’ he said, cheerfully.