There was a silence, wherein she wanted to cry. She reached for another
bit of chocolate paper, and began to fold another boat.
'And why is it,' she asked at length, 'that there is no flowering, no
dignity of human life now?'
'The whole idea is dead. Humanity itself is dry-rotten, really. There
are myriads of human beings hanging on the bush--and they look very
nice and rosy, your healthy young men and women. But they are apples of
Sodom, as a matter of fact, Dead Sea Fruit, gall-apples. It isn't true
that they have any significance--their insides are full of bitter,
corrupt ash.'
'But there ARE good people,' protested Ursula.
'Good enough for the life of today. But mankind is a dead tree, covered
with fine brilliant galls of people.'
Ursula could not help stiffening herself against this, it was too
picturesque and final. But neither could she help making him go on.
'And if it is so, WHY is it?' she asked, hostile. They were rousing
each other to a fine passion of opposition.
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