fatal letter already waiting
somewhere for Toby, or on its way to him. The thought of it made her
body feel as though it were covered with prickles. She could not keep
still, but started to her feet and took several paces, her hand to her
cheek, as she remained deep in disturbed thought. If she saw Toby the
next night, and was again afraid to tell him of her marriage, what would
become of her? Sooner or later he was bound to know. The letter would
tell him. Oh, if only she had not written that letter! She would have
had time, and time was what she needed--time to remove her mother, to
cover her own tracks. And yet she knew now that she could not give Toby
up. And yet to give up her ambitions was now a proposition equally
impossible. She could not. She would not. She wanted everything. She
wanted Toby; but she wanted her opportunity with the business. If Toby
would only ... what? She could not bear the idea of his marrying another
girl. She wanted him for herself. But if he would only accept the
situation--for the present. If he would keep quiet. He would not. She
could not control him, because he was another human being, with desires
and impulses as insistent as her own.

Her mind came round to another position. If she had not married Gaga--if
she had kept on playing with him, tantalising him, until she had been
indispensable! No; that was impossible. Wretched creature though she
felt him at this moment to be, Gaga also was a human being. Sally was in
conflict with the world, because the world opposes to the wilfulness of
the individual a steady pressure that is without mercy because it is
without considerateness. Nothing is more selfish than the individual,
except the mass of individuals, which has greater power. Again, in her
torment, Sally longed for death. Then, quickly tangential, she returned
to Toby and their coming meeting. If she did not tell him, but let him
find her letter--she would have lost him. He would be savagely angry. He
would infallibly kill her, because she would have deserved his vengeful
hatred.

A moan reached Sally's ears. Her name was called. Gaga must have seen
from his bed the light in the next room. She hesitated, repugnance and
cruelty struggling in her mind with the knowledge that she must submit
to her burden. Then she again turned to the bedroom, fighting down her
distaste, her horror of sickness and illness, of invalidism, of Gaga in
particular. She saw his grey face all pointed and su