I was the black sheep, I was hurried out of the way. At first she could not tell what it was; but as her eyes became accustomed to the light, she recognized the old coat. He regretted— more deeply than he could say—the occurrence of this evening. She did not understand the note of hostility to men that ran through it all, the bitter vindictiveness that lit Miss Miniver’s cheeks and eyes, the sense of some at last insupportable wrong slowly accumulated. But it never said: "Tell someone! Tell someone!" Was he something of a moral pervert, then? Was it what he had lost—the familiar world—rather than what he had done? He stared dully at the footrail. I like you very much, I haven’t known you enough to love you, no matter how worthy you are of love. It is customary even where an agreement is drawn. It is not, my dear Veronica, that I think there is any harm in you; there is not.
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