“And where,” he asked, “are my rivals?” “Deserters,” she answered, laughing. Her aunt did not object to capital punishment or war, or the industrial system or casual wards, or flogging of criminals or the Congo Free State, because none of these things really got hold of her imagination; but she did object, she did not like, she could not bear to think of people not having and enjoying their meals. Her fingers opened and the weapon fell from her nerveless grasp. A sophisticated woman would have translated the tone as a caress. “You’ve no right to badger me like this, Veronica,” he said.
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