“Why do you hate me again, my love?” He seemed to brighten, feeding upon the intensity of her emotion. Lucy grabbed his shirtsleeve, whispering on tiptoe. "Nor any one else, I suspect," answered Ireton, winking significantly. He stood a little anxious and fussy, bothered by the responsibility of her, entirely careless of what her life was or was likely to be, ignoring her thoughts and feelings, ignorant of every fact of importance in her life, explaining everything he could not understand in her as nonsense and perversity, concerned only with a terror of bothers and undesirable situations. You would be alarmed of how sulphurous it is, how sickeningly sweet.
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