’
‘I do not lie to you now,’ she said, near frantic at the thought of losing him. The figure of the girl upon it in plain black dress, standing with
her hands behind her, was an undeniable and astonishing likeness of herself. ‘But who was he, Gerald?’
‘A damned condottiere,’ exploded Gerald, forgetting his company. It now came to him with an added thrill how well she had told her story; simply
and directly, no skipping, no wandering hither and yon: from the first hour she
could remember, to the night she had fled in the proa, a clear sustained narrative. Bottles and glasses usurped the place of
dishes and plates. She became more and more alive, not
so much to a system of ideas as to a big diffused impulse toward change, to a
great discontent with and criticism of life as it is lived, to a clamorous confusion
of ideas for reconstruction—reconstruction of the methods of business, of
economic development, of the rules of property, of the status of children, of the
clothing and feeding and teaching of every one; she developed a quite
exaggerated consciousness of a multitude of people going about the swarming
spaces of London with their minds full, their talk and gestures full, their very
clothing charged with the suggestion of the urgency of this pervasive project of
alteration. What happened at Dollis Hill. "'The Man Who Could Not Go Home. . ”
She had spoken rather rapidly. She turned there, clasped her hands behind her back and put up her
chin. “I love your sister. "Write as follows," continued Jack.
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This video was uploaded to damaulifm.org on 06-07-2024 12:21:43