The clanking of chains, the grating of locks, and the rumbling of bolts must have been music in Jonathan's ears, so much pains did he take to subject himself to such sounds. He would get her to come to tea with him, usually in a pleasant tea-room over a fruit-shop in Tottenham Court Road, and he would discuss his own point of view and hint at a thousand devotions were she but to command him. It was not an affair of the conscience; it was vaguely based upon insolence and defiance. She turned there and beckoned. It came into her head with real emotional force that this must be some particularly fantastic sort of dream. What I said about your brat was all stuff.
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