“Stop,” he said. When night fell, he crept into the town of Tottenham. He was really very proud of her, and extraordinarily angry and resentful at the innocent and audacious selfreliance that seemed to intimate her sense of absolute independence of him, her absolute security without him. “Delusion!” “You can call it what you like,” she said. To her mind, recalling the picture of him the night before, there had been something tragic in the grim silent manner of his tippling. The subterranean level of the Diedermayer house was fully bedecked with every luxury known to mankind. She felt flattered.
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