She was keenly resolved to do well in the school examination, and not to be drowned in the seas of emotion that threatened to submerge her intellectual being. ‘But who was he, Gerald?’ ‘A damned condottiere,’ exploded Gerald, forgetting his company. I found him once in my rooms, and I believe that he had a key to my front door. ” She smiled grimly at the recollection of that lunch—tea and roll at a cheap café. She told me the tale the other night, and I've only elaborated it. She became more and more alive, not so much to a system of ideas as to a big diffused impulse toward change, to a great discontent with and criticism of life as it is lived, to a clamorous confusion of ideas for reconstruction—reconstruction of the methods of business, of economic development, of the rules of property, of the status of children, of the clothing and feeding and teaching of every one; she developed a quite exaggerated consciousness of a multitude of people going about the swarming spaces of London with their minds full, their talk and gestures full, their very clothing charged with the suggestion of the urgency of this pervasive project of alteration. She wished she could steal his smiles and keep them in a box, they had always been so precious. I cannot do it, David.
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