Yet in some hidden corner was a vein of sentiment, of which for the first time in his later life he was now unexpectedly aware. He had assumed that her leaving home was the point at issue, that everything turned on that, and that the sole alternative was obedience, and she had fallen in with that assumption until rebellion seemed a sacred principle. You lack only that mechanical knack of expression which is the least important part of an artist’s equipment, but which remains a tedious and absolute necessity. He had never liked to be hugged, but she wondered if his corporeal needs would be made apparent by human touch. She would always be going to and fro up the Avenue, getting glimpses of Ramage, seeing him in trains. “How dare you? You are trying to kidnap my babies!” Clotilde demanded. ‘Some ineligible that your parents would not tolerate, I suppose.
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