Jim is up to the neck in Mahatmas and Theosophy and Higher Thought and rot—writes letters worse than Alice. ‘Yes, th-there it is,’ she uttered, stumbling a little over the words. And how can I get into one brief letter the complex accumulated desires of what is now, I find on reference to my diary, nearly sixteen months of letting my mind run on you— ever since that jolly party at Surbiton, where we raced and beat the other boat. I can’t. And if you dare to produce any kind of weapon at all,’ he added, taking a plain brass-barrelled little pistol from his own pocket and levelling it, ‘I will have no compunction in blowing off your head, you madcap female. We fetched the doctor and the police. They were very nice about it, in memory of your father. F. They steal over to Copeley's at night and dispose of the pearl for cash.
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