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John turned toward the short staircase as she alit upon the first creaky step. The turning of the key startled her, but she did not see how she could make an objection. She sat perfectly still, however. It got on my nerves—the women I saw. "I had one," answered his sister, in a mournful voice; "and, perhaps, I have one still. One day I can be a Gothic chick, and the next day I’ll be Hitler Youth. Sheppard is, without your information, Sir. Was it that the struggle of things to survive produced as a sort of necessary byproduct these intense preferences and appreciations, or was it that some mystical outer thing, some great force, drove life beautyward, even in spite of expediency, regardless of survival value and all the manifest discretions of life? She went to Capes with that riddle and put it to him very carefully and clearly, and he talked well—he always talked at some length when she took a difficulty to him—and sent her to a various literature upon the markings of butterflies, the incomprehensible elaboration and splendor of birds of Paradise and hummingbirds’ plumes, the patterning of tigers, and a leopard’s spots. And this time the departure had a tremendous effect of finality. Wild. She flung herself back into the bare little room, cold, empty, comfortless. He resumed his listening.
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This video was uploaded to thenextfuture.net on 23-09-2024 03:25:05
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