Now I'm going to be brutal. The fact is that
you're too self-centred. People never do anything in the world so long as
they are wondering whether the world's going to hurt them or no. Those
early years of yours made you morbid. You've got a temper and one or two
other things that want a lot of holding down and that takes up your
attention--And then Clare isn't the woman to help you--"
Peter was about to break in but she went on:--'"Oh! I know my Clare through
and through. She's just as anxious as you are not to be hurt by anything
and so she's being hurt all the time. She's out for happiness at any cost
and you're out for freedom--freedom from every kind of thing--and because
both of you are denied it you are restive. But you and Clare are both
people whose only salvation is in being hurt and knocked about and bruised
to such an extent that they simply don't know where they are. Oh! I
know--I'm exactly the same sort of person myself. We can thank the Gods if
we are knocked about--"
Suddenly she paused and, falling back in her chair, put her hand to her
breast, coughing. Something seized her, held her in its grip, tossed her
from side to side, at last left her white, speechless, utterly exhausted.
It had come so suddenly that it had taken Peter entirely by surprise. She
lay back now, her eyes closed, her face a grey white.
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