Sir John felt that after all forty-five was not so very old. Her head felt absurdly like one of those noddling manikins in the Hong-Kong curio-shops. Ants. You would rather live like the scum of the earth, in that little brown hovel you call a house, in bourgeois paradise. Before I met you I never met any one whom I felt I could love, but you have discovered depths in my own nature I had scarcely suspected. Anything else that was said she now regarded only as an aspect of or diversion from that. Life is a patchwork of impressions, of vanishing personalities.
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