After all, it is not long since that a Catholic nun in this country would have had to remain in hiding. And neither had any of that theatricality which demands gestures and facial expression. But something instinctive prevented that, and with the finest resolve not to be “silly” and prudish she found that whenever he became at all bold in this matter she became severely scientific and impersonal, almost entomological indeed, in her method; she killed every remark as he made it and pinned it out for examination. ‘Inside, miss!’ ‘But what is it?’ ‘Quick! We need the major. It was the day I borrowed a pencil; the day we first spoke to one another. I’ve got a lot of things to think about. Why wasn't the world full of love, when love made happiness? Why did people hide their natural kindliness as if it were something shameful? Why shouldn't people say what they thought and act as they were inclined? Why all this pother about what one's neighbour thought, when this pother was not energized by any good will? Why was truth avoided as the plague? Why did this young man have one name on the hotel register and another on his lips? Why was she bothering about him at all? Why should there be this inexplicable compassion, when the normal sensation should have been repellance? Sidney Carton. E.
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