She was never weary of reading
this work with the comprehensive title; it reminded her of schooldays.
It was comforting, like a dressing-gown and slippers, like an old
friend. Whether she had ever thoroughly understood it may be doubted. If
any modern person nowadays were to dip into it, he would find it,
perhaps, more obscure than George Meredith at his darkest. Secretly
Dulcie loved best in the world, in the form of reading matter, the
feuilletons in the daily papers. There was something so exciting in that
way they have of stopping at a thrilling moment and leaving you the
whole day to think over what would come next, and the night to sleep
over it. She preferred that; she never concentrated her mind for long on
a story, or any work of the imagination. She was deeply interested in
her own life. She was more subjective than objective--though, perhaps,
she had never heard the words. Unconsciously she dealt with life only as
it related to herself. But this is almost universal with young girls who
have only just become conscious of themselves, and of their importance
in the world; have only just left the simple objectiveness of the child
who wants to look at the world, and have barely begun to feel what it is
to be an actor rather than a spectator.
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