She knew very well that a new thing was stirring in her. What a fool I was to separate the two in my mind. And some were adorned with engravings that struck her as being more vulgar and undesirable than anything she had ever seen in her life. “Very well,” she would say, “then I must go. Then she spoke, with a carelessness he instantly suspected. Why should some things and not others open the deeps?” “Well, that might, after all, be an outcome of selection—like the preference for blue flowers, which are not nearly so bright as yellow, of some insects. Why wasn't the world full of love, when love made happiness? Why did people hide their natural kindliness as if it were something shameful? Why shouldn't people say what they thought and act as they were inclined? Why all this pother about what one's neighbour thought, when this pother was not energized by any good will? Why was truth avoided as the plague? Why did this young man have one name on the hotel register and another on his lips? Why was she bothering about him at all? Why should there be this inexplicable compassion, when the normal sensation should have been repellance? Sidney Carton.
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