When the disillusion comes, when the fairy story ends, if she is blessed with children, she doesn't mind. ” He resumed, after a mouthful: “Here is a girl of sixteen or seventeen, seventeen and a half to be exact, running about, as one might say, in London. I keep on thinking of little details and aspects of your voice, your eyes, the way you walk, the way your hair goes back from the side of your forehead. She had time in the afternoons to do crewelwork and embroidery, no longer occupied by the constant spinning of wool. To wait for hours and hours for the night! The sea empty for days! You forgot the monotony, the endless monotony, that bends you and breaks you and crushes you—you forgot that!" Her voice had steadily risen until it was charged with passionate anger. Again he played for her; and again the eruption of the strange senses that lay hidden in her soul.
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