Everywhere I went and rapped at a door I found behind it another dreadful dingy woman—another fallen queen, I suppose— dingier than the last, dirty, you know, in grain. She had prepared herself to meet violent protest, a recurrence of that burning glance. And that happens through our maternity; it’s our very importance that degrades us. She liked his face; it had on it the suggestion of gentleness, of fineness. She could feel his breath on her skin, every hair on her arms and neck raised in response. Here, might be seen a poor fellow whose teeth were knocked down his throat, spluttering out the most tremendous menaces, and gesticulating like a madman: there, another, whose nose was partially slit, vented imprecations and lamentations in the same breath. I get the feeling that you are special, so alone, so beautiful that I must get to the bottom of you if it takes my whole life.
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