Soames could neither speak nor move. That word “hate”⁠—so extreme, so primitive⁠—made all the Forsyte in him tremble. With a deep imprecation he strode away from where she had vanished, and ran almost into the arms of the lady sauntering back⁠—the fool, the shadowing fool!

He was soon dripping with perspiration, in the depths of the Bois.

“Well,” he thought, “I need have no consideration for her now; she has not a grain of it for me. I’ll show her this very day that she’s my wife still.”