“Now, Jane, why don’t you say ‘Well, sir?’ I have not done. You are looking grave. You disapprove of me still, I see. But let me come to the point. Last January, rid of all mistresses⁠—in a harsh, bitter frame of mind, the result of a useless, roving, lonely life⁠—corroded with disappointment, sourly disposed against all men, and especially against all woman kind (for I began to regard the notion of an intellectual, faithful, loving woman as a mere dream), recalled by business, I came back to England.