“I implore you to close this distressing scene.”
“Will you lend me the money?”
“My principles prevent me.”
“Then damn your principles!” George shouted. “Damn your principles!”
While he had been battering his head against this brick wall he had been saved pain by the hope that a last chance would carry him through. Now that he realised the futility of the endeavour, the stability of the wall, he had time to feel the bruising he had suffered—the bitterness of failure and of all that failure meant. The hurts combined to make him roar with pain, and he shouted furiously again: “Damn your principles!”
“Barley water!” throated Mr. Marrapit on a note of terror. He reached for the glass. It was empty.
He struggled to his feet; got the chair between George and himself; cried across it: “Beware how you touch me.”
“Oh, I'm not going to touch you. You needn't be afraid.”
“I have every need. I am afraid. Keep your distance. You are not responsible for your actions.”
“You needn't be afraid, I tell you. It is too ridiculous.”