“It isn’t only the dance,” she said. She had lost her nerve, and there was no more freedom in London for her that night. She saw her life before her robbed of all generous illusions, the wrappered life unwrappered forever, vistas of dull responses, crises of makebelieve, years of exacting mutual disregard in a misty garden of fine sentiments. Starting off at a rapid pace, Jack dashed down Turnagain-lane, skirted the eastern bank of Fleet-ditch, crossed Holborn Bridge, and began to ascend the neighbouring hill. “A man can smoke, a man can swear; A man scores always, everywhere.
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