Suddenly⁠—like the lights fusing⁠ ⁠… What, in Heaven’s name, had made him do it? Emily Gaunt, of all people.⁠ ⁠… Curse Emily! He wasted no pity on her, no sentimental sorrow for the wiping out of a warm young life. Emily had brought it on herself, the little fool. It was her fault⁠—really.⁠ ⁠… Stephen was too self-centred to be gravely disturbed by thoughts of Emily, except so far as she was likely to affect his future peace of mind. And he had seen too much of death in the war to be much distressed by the fact of death. His inchoate remorse was more of a protest than a genuine regret for wrong⁠—a protest against the wounding of self-respect, against the coming worries and anxieties and necessary evasions, and all the foreseen unpleasantness which this damnable night had forced upon him. It must not happen again, this kind of thing. Too upsetting. Stephen began to make fierce resolutions, as sincere as any resolutions can be that rest on such unsubstantial foundations. He was going to be a better fellow in future⁠—a better husband.⁠ ⁠… People thought a lot of him at present⁠—and they were deceived. In future he would live up grandly to “people’s” conception of him, to Margery’s conception of him.