He knew perfectly well that Christie understood his attachment to Gerda. He knew perfectly well that she would understand his resentment at the intrusion of Bob Weevil. What he could never, never make her understand would be this cold, sickening nausea he felt toward the simple, actual facts of what must have gone on. How could Gerda allow it? How could she?

But perhaps she did struggle a little⁠—if only out of pride⁠—when Bob Weevil began fumbling. But soon there could have been no sound at all except their breathing, except their hard breathing⁠ ⁠… Gerda would suffer, if she knew about Christie, the most secret of feminine sufferings⁠ ⁠… deeper than “France distr⁠ ⁠… land”⁠ ⁠… But a man coming home at a quarter past nine suffered too, the most secret of male sufferings⁠ ⁠… “An ounce of civet, good Master Jason!” He bent his head low down over the little iron railings, trying to think⁠—to think and get it all clear.