It seemed to her the last desperate attack upon the universe that would not
let her live as she desired to live, that penned her in and controlled her and
directed her and disapproved of her, the same invincible wrappering, the same
leaden tyranny of a universe that she had vowed to overcome after that
memorable conflict with her father at Morningside Park. He was a
philosopher. Without a word or a gesture, the Wastrel turned and staggered forth, out of the
orbit of these two, having been thrust into it for a single purpose already
described. She must speak to Jack. . She had made her first fight for dignity and freedom
as a grown-up and independent Person, and this was how the universe had
treated her. It
had thrust her back with an undignified scuffle, with vulgar comedy, with an
unendurable, scornful grin. How she had hated it!… All these
mumblings which were never explained, which carried no more sense to her
brain than they would have carried to Old Morgan's swearing parrot. Sorry to be so nosy. Women to me are something so serene, so
fine, so feminine, and politics are so dusty, so sordid, so wearisome and
quarrelsome. At any
rate, it would be good to hear him saying the sort of things he did—perhaps now
she would grasp them better—with this world-shaking secret brandishing itself
about inside her head within a yard of him. She sat, crouched together, by
the corner of the hearthrug under the bookcase that supported the pig’s skull, and
looked into the fire and up at Ann Veronica’s face, and let herself go. One’s got to be a better man than one’s
father, or what is the good of successive generations? Life is rebellion, or
nothing.
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This video was uploaded to indienet.info on 19-07-2024 05:26:38