It's difficult to
put into words, but I think what I mean is that I want to go on now in
London, writing and seeing people and being happy and it's pulling at me
all the time."
"What way pulling at you?"
"I can't get out of my head all the things I did when I was a boy there. I
wasn't very happy, you know. I've told you something about it.... I want
to go back.... I want to go back. I mustn't, but I want to go back--and it
hurts--"
He seemed to have forgotten her--he stared out to sea, his hands holding
the grass on either side of him.
She moved and the sound suddenly brought him back. He turned to her
laughing.
"Sorry. I was thinking about things. That cottage over there with the black
trees reminded me of Scaw House a little.... But it's all right really. I
suppose every fellow has the wild side and the sober side, and I've had
such a rum life and been civilised so short a time...."
She said slowly: "I think I know what you mean, though. I know enough of it
to be frightened of it--I don't want life to be like that. I don't suppose
I've got imagination. I want it to be orderly and easy and no one to be
hurt or damaged. Oh!"--her voice was suddenly like a cry--"Why can't we
just go through life without any one being frightened or made miserable? I
_believe_ in cities and walls and fires and regulated emotions--all those
other things can only hurt.
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