She was aware of it now as if it were a voice shouting outside a house, shouting passionate verities in a hot sunlight, a voice that cries while people talk insincerely in a darkened room and pretend not to hear. Outside stood a stocky, combat boot-clad girl of seventeen with a teased mass of spiky bottle-black hair. Amid this skirmish Jonathan greatly distinguished himself. And now the fiend Gosse had taken even that away from her. You will only make me hurt you the more. “Forgive me,” he said, “but I want to hear it from your sister.
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