Her mind left her. Fortescue rambled round the garden with soft, propitiatory steps, the Corinthian nose upraised and his hands behind his back, pausing to look long and hard at the fruit-trees against the wall. That won’t involve references, as a bank account would—and all that sort of thing. To be near someone, even someone who made a pretense of friendliness, to hear voices, her own intermingling, would serve as a rehabilitating tonic. She laughed. Her specialty is the central thing in life, it is life itself, the warmth of life, sex—and love. It's of no use. Perhaps at the first blush—it strikes you as odd.
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