I tell you, you want
love to administer to your egoism, to subserve you. Love is a process
of subservience with you--and with everybody. I hate it.'
'No,' she cried, pressing back her head like a cobra, her eyes
flashing. 'It is a process of pride--I want to be proud--'
'Proud and subservient, proud and subservient, I know you,' he retorted
dryly. 'Proud and subservient, then subservient to the proud--I know
you and your love. It is a tick-tack, tick-tack, a dance of opposites.'
'Are you sure?' she mocked wickedly, 'what my love is?'
'Yes, I am,' he retorted.
'So cocksure!' she said. 'How can anybody ever be right, who is so
cocksure? It shows you are wrong.'
He was silent in chagrin.
They had talked and struggled till they were both wearied out.
'Tell me about yourself and your people,' he said.
And she told him about the Brangwens, and about her mother, and about
Skrebensky, her first love, and about her later experiences. He sat
very still, watching her as she talked.
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