had a passion for euphemisms, and she scented indecency everywhere; she never spoke of trousers but referred to them as nether garments; she thought it slightly indelicate to blow her nose and did it in a deprecating way.  She was dreadfully anaemic and suffered from the dyspepsia which accompanies that ailing.  Philip was repelled by her flat breast and narrow hips, and he hated the vulgar way in which she did her hair.  He loathed and despised himself for loving her.

The fact remained that he was helpless.  He felt just as he had felt sometimes in the hands of a bigger boy at school.  He had struggled against the superior strength till his own strength was gone, and he was rendered quite powerless—­he remembered the peculiar languor he had felt in his limbs, almost as though he were paralysed—­so that he could not help himself at all.  He might have been dead.  He felt just that same weakness now.  He loved the woman so that he knew he had never loved before.  He did not mind her faults of person or of character, he thought he loved them too:  at all events they meant nothing to him.  It did not seem himself that was concerned; he felt that he had been seized by some strange force that moved him against his will, contrary to his interests; and because he had a passion for freedom he hated the chains which bound him.  He laughed at himself when he thought how often he had longed to experience the overwhelming passion.  He cursed himself because he had given way to it.  He thought of the beginnings; nothing of all this would have happened if he had not gone into the shop with Dunsford.  The whole thing was his own fault.  Except for his ridiculous vanity he would never have troubled himself with the ill-mannered slut.

At all events the occurrences of that evening had finished the whole affair.  Unless he was lost to all sense of shame he could not go back.  He wanted passionately to get rid of the love that obsessed him; it was degrading and hateful.  He must prevent himself from thinking of her.  In a little while the anguish he suffered must grow less.  His mind went back to the past.  He wondered whether Emily Wilkinson and Fanny Price had endured on his account anything like the torment that he suffered now.  He felt a pang of remorse.

“I didn’t know then what it was like,” he said to himself.

He slept very badly.  The next day was Sunday, and he worked at his biology.  He sat with the book in front of him, forming the words with his lips in order to fix his attention, but he could remember nothing.  He found his thoughts going back to Mildred every minute, and he repeated to himself the exact words of the quarrel they had had.  He had to force himself back to his book.  He went out for a walk.  The streets on the South side of the river were dingy enough on week-days, but there was an energy, a coming and going, which gave them a sordid vivacity; but on Sundays, with no shops open, no carts in the roadway, silent and depressed, they