He loved Ann Veronica, he said; he was so mad to have her that he defeated himself, and did crude and alarming and senseless things. She was fiercely and bitterly jealous. “Yes, mostly. “Forgive my coming in,” she said to Ennison. Others are smart but fall prey to emotional damage, the female lunar instinct of cunning that goes awry. I'm hungry. She realized more and more the quality of the brink upon which she stood—the dreadful readiness with which in certain moods she might plunge, the unmitigated wrongness and recklessness of such a self-abandonment.
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