I have read that authors are very selfish and self-centred. Then the dagger’s point came in a whirling arc towards his face. Life! Life and love! It makes me want to be always young, always strong, always devoting my life—and dying splendidly. I tried it myself, Sir. And now, come and sit by me, my dear, and let's have a little quiet chat together. You have your work before you, and I——” He kissed her on the lips. And not only so, but that it was after all, a more systematic and particular method of examining just the same questions that underlay the discussions of the Fabian Society, the talk of the West Central Arts Club, the chatter of the studios and the deep, the bottomless discussions of the simple-life homes. She closed the book that she had been pretending to read and gathered her black umbrella and her backpack, a childish accoutrement she despised. The fragrance of dryer sheets lay upon her like the snow that now drifted peacefully outside. He was not used to not getting his way.
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