Then he went on: “—and, indeed, to most of the established things in life is, frankly, unsatisfactory. You have never seen the child within your arms perishing from hunger, and no relief to be obtained. That she possessed any sense of humour was in itself one of those human miracles which metaphysicians are always pothering over without arriving anywhere; for her previous environment had been particularly humourless. I suspect she knew something, for she came home to Remenham House when she was increasing, and report has it that she was very unhappy. She wasn’t well-liked really, I think people were jealous of her. How long wilt thou forget me, O Lord? for ever? How long wilt thou hide thy face from me? She came upon the Song of Songs—which had been pasted down in the Enschede Bible—the burning litany of love; and from time to time she intoned some verse of tender lyric beauty. She turned back to Gerald, holding out her hand. There is something that inspires a feeling of inexpressible melancholy in sailing on a dark night upon the Thames. It’s a sort of blacklegging to want to have a life of one’s own.
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