But now there arose a different question. His mind began tying itself in a knot like a twisting snake. His own voice was in his ears assuring Christie that, all day and all night, he did nothing but live with her in his thoughts, telling her everything! Could he now tell her everything?ā āā ā¦ She who at this very minute was no doubt standing at her window? Why couldnāt he tell her everything? Why couldnāt he tell her that it wasnāt that he grudged Gerda pleasureā āā ā¦ that it was only that he grudged Bob Weevil the sort of pleasure he had got from that tombstone-picture! Why couldnāt he explain all this to Christie; why couldnāt he explain to her that it was not the thing itself, but only the wayā āā ā¦ the way in which Bob Weevil didā āā ā¦ whatever it was he did?
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