At Christmas he gave her a set of a small edition of Meredith’s novels, very prettily bound in flexible leather, being guided in the choice of an author, as he intimated, rather by her preferences than his own. He was no Hoddy, but a tremendous man, with hairy arms and bearded face and drink-shattered intellect. The mother was far more real to her than the father; the ghostly far more substantial than the living form. But women—women as a rule don’t throw themselves into things like that. You see—I didn’t understand. A dressing-room then. In this room was my ruin begun: in this room it should be ended.
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