She had followed a bobbing white hat and gray jacket until she reached the Euston Road corner of Tottenham Court Road, and there, by the name on a bus and the cries of a conductor, she made a guess of her way. The visitor was the hotel manager, who respectfully announced that the doctor was ready for her. “I’m sorry. It may bring us together again. Gosse had hidden himself successfully then. He hung over her—he and his loan to her and his connection with her and that terrible evening—a vague, disconcerting possibility of annoyance and exposure. “I thought you wanted to have a talk to me,” she said. It’s one of their worst traits, one of their very worst. “Very good,” he said. ‘You wish a reason for jealousy? Eh bien, you may have it. This species of madness cannot properly be attributed to his illness, though its accent might be. " "Her release would be a mercy," pursued the matron.
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