‘Say then, Jacques, you have followed him?’ she demanded of the blackgarbed footman. She wished she could steal his smiles and keep them in a box, they had always been so precious. “And now,” she said, splintering the surviving piece of coal into indignant flame-spurting fragments with one dexterous blow, “what am I to do? “I’m in a hole!—mess is a better word, expresses it better. They don’t catch on to discursive interests, you see, because they are more serious, they are concentrated on the central reality of life, and a little impatient of its—its outer aspects. You speak as one injured—as though I had been the one to take your name—as though you had been the one to make sacrifices.
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