She spent the morning up to ten in writing a series of unsuccessful letters to Ramage, which she tore up unfinished; and finally she desisted and put on her jacket and went out into the lamp-lit obscurity and slimy streets. “My chief,” he said, “took it into his head to have an impromptu dinner party. When I examined you for ‘ill humors’ I longed to run my hands over your entire body, to touch your face, to caress you in the places that would give you pleasure. It was in the quiet streets and squares toward Oxford Street that it first came into her head disagreeably that she herself was being followed.
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