He was quite near, and yet he did not exist in her. He
did not know she was there. Supposing he did something he would not
wish to be seen doing, thinking he was quite private? But there, what
did it matter? What did the small priyacies matter? How could it
matter, what he did? How can there be any secrets, we are all the same
organisms? How can there be any secrecy, when everything is known to
all of us?
He was touching unconsciously the dead husks of flowers as he passed
by, and talking disconnectedly to himself.
'You can't go away,' he was saying. 'There IS no away. You only
withdraw upon yourself.'
He threw a dead flower-husk on to the water.
'An antiphony--they lie, and you sing back to them. There wouldn't have
to be any truth, if there weren't any lies. Then one needn't assert
anything--'
He stood still, looking at the water, and throwing upon it the husks of
the flowers.
'Cybele--curse her! The accursed Syria Dea! Does one begrudge it her?
What else is there--?'
Ursula wanted to laugh loudly and hysterically, hearing his isolated
voice speaking out.
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