“And now let us leave the men alone and talk about ourselves. ” She was silent for a time, with her nose on the pillow, and that brought her to: “What’s the good of pretending? “I love him,” she said aloud to the dim forms of her room, and repeated it, and went on to imagine herself doing acts of tragically dog-like devotion to the biologist, who, for the purposes of the drama, remained entirely unconscious of and indifferent to her proceedings. Love was joy, and joyous she was when alone. Oh, the beautiful books! Romance, adventure, love stories! She gathered up the books in her arms and cuddled them, as a mother might have cuddled a child. Then, I thought, she has repented, all will be well.
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