"Perhaps we're all ungenerous," she said presently. "I believe we are
ungenerous towards the thing that chains us. It's only natural. But I
don't think that you or the author of 'John Barleycorn' or poor de
Quincey ought really to put drugs and drink and all that out of the
world at all. You ought to live with them in the world, and not let them
chain you. Don't you think so? And--poor Professor Kraill! Isn't he
wistful about the stuffiness of women's hair? Oh Louis, do you know what
it reminds me of?"
He lit a cigarette, watching her with amused tolerance.
"Knollys put a horrible sticky fly-paper in the stewards' pantry one
day. I was looking at it, and wishing flies needn't be made at all. Then
I wished I could let the poor things all loose, no matter how horrible
they are. There was one big bluebottle that had got stuck there on his
back with his wings in the sticky stuff. He struggled and struggled
till--Oh, horrible!--his wings came off. Then he crawled and crawled,
over other dead flies till he got to the edge of the paper. And he went
all wobbly and horrible because nearly all his legs had got pulled off."
"Lord, what a mind you've got!" he said.
"Can't you see that's how people are--most of them. Oh, poor things! If
I'd stopped to think I'd have been sorry for Ole Fred instead of putting
him in the sea for the sharks.
Pages:
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307
308
309
310
311
312
313
314
315
316
317
318
319
320
321
322