“You’ve no right to badger me like this, Veronica,” he said. She looked at the white ankle socks on her feet and was reminded simultaneously of her pajama outfit and the suitcase that still lay underneath the bed. After all, the Wastrel was in luck: he was alone. She did not see the metal pole swing toward the back of her skull, nor did she feel her own blood spoiling her light hair after the dull crack of metal broke her flesh. But after all, what did it matter whether she had secrets or not? To him she was not a woman but a symbol; and one did not investigate the antecedents of symbols. Priests and princes sought his knowledge of languages and philosophy and wantonly tried to throw themselves into his bed. The night before they made McClintock's Ruth and Spurlock leaned over the rail, their shoulders touching. His demeanour then was sober enough to lend colour to that belief. The effort of self-repression cost him a sob.
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