"Then I won't!" she cried hotly. "I won't do a thing because something
inside me, over which I have no control, says I've got to! I hate it!
It's a chain--I'm--a thing with a will, not just a bundle of instincts."
He looked at her queerly, laughed a little and said nothing. She got the
terrible idea that he knew more than she did, that something was weaving
a net which all the while she thought was beautiful devotion when it was
really something that was getting entangled in her arms and legs so that
she could not move as she wished.
"I resent it!" she cried, suddenly, starting up as though she would
push the wall through and escape into the street. "I can't bear chains,
Louis."
"Then commit suicide," he said, stretching his hand out to her. "Even
then some of these mad psychics say that that doesn't kill the thing
you're escaping from. They say you die with an appetite and are so
earthbound that you come to life again with it still about you. Lord, if
I died now I'd come back and be the bung of a whisky barrel--and you--"
"Louis, don't," she cried, staring up wildly. "It's beastly. Oh it's
better not to understand anything at all! Do you know, I believe lots of
people who stop to think resent these tyrannies of the body, only they
don't mention it because it's the sort of thing that makes people blush!
In this last lecture Professor Kraill says the same thing you told me
once.
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