She had to have him, her body was going crazy for the want of sex. Occasionally the mere fact of lying in bed became unendurable, and she rolled out and marched about her room and whispered abuse of herself—usually until she hit against some article of furniture. “Don’t think so,” Drummond answered. It would be useless to tell her to go back, even heartless; and yet he could not advise her to go on, blindly, not knowing whether her aunt was dead or alive. She came in while he was still in the throes, conviction battling with commonsense, his own apprehension. She tried to be casual. I'll repay you. I believe I’m in love. My reception at West Kensington you know of.
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