He
watched her without heeding her. There was something strangely pathetic
and tender in her moving, unconscious finger-tips, that were agitated
and hurt, really.
'I DO enjoy things--don't you?' she asked.
'Oh yes! But it infuriates me that I can't get right, at the really
growing part of me. I feel all tangled and messed up, and I CAN'T get
straight anyhow. I don't know what really to DO. One must do something
somewhere.'
'Why should you always be DOING?' she retorted. 'It is so plebeian. I
think it is much better to be really patrician, and to do nothing but
just be oneself, like a walking flower.'
'I quite agree,' he said, 'if one has burst into blossom. But I can't
get my flower to blossom anyhow. Either it is blighted in the bud, or
has got the smother-fly, or it isn't nourished. Curse it, it isn't even
a bud. It is a contravened knot.'
Again she laughed. He was so very fretful and exasperated. But she was
anxious and puzzled. How was one to get out, anyhow. There must be a
way out somewhere.
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