‘That man’s your lover! Have I gone starving only for this—that you should give yourself to Roger Antrim? Show me that letter!’
‘How dare you suggest that Roger’s my lover! But if he were it’s no business of yours.’
‘Will you show me that letter?’
‘I will not.’
‘It’s from Roger.’
‘You’re intolerable. You can think what you please.’
‘What am I to think?’ Then because of her longing, ‘Angela, for God’s sake don’t treat me like this—I can’t bear it. When you loved me it was easier to bear—I endured it for your sake, but now—listen, listen. . . .’ Stark naked confessions dragged from lips that grew white the while they confessed: ‘Angela, listen. . . .’
And now the terrible nerves of the invert, those nerves that are always lying in wait, gripped Stephen. They ran like live wires through her body, causing a constant and ruthless torment, so that the sudden closing of a door or the barking of Tony would fall like a blow on her shrinking flesh. At night in her bed she must cover her ears from the ticking of the clock, which would sound like thunder in the darkness.
Angela had taken to going up to London on some pretext or another—she must see her dentist; she must fit a new dress.
‘Well then, let me come with you.’