"I can escape to France. After all, the Wastrel was in luck: he was alone. “You can’t imagine,” he said, “what a beastly thing a furtive love affair can be. Lincoln lost to Glenbrook South miserably, the score eight to two. And Ann Veronica walked beside him, trying in vain to soften her heart to him by the thought of how she had ill-used him, and all the time, as her feet and mind grew weary together, rejoicing more and more that at the cost of this one interminable walk she escaped the prospect of—what was it?—“Ten thousand days, ten thousand nights” in his company. He knew my name, and also that I had been living in Paris, and a man doesn’t risk claiming a girl for his wife, as a rule, for nothing. He has no imagination, no real generosity. He did not even care for his own inheritance at this place in Wodeham Water.
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