We've got to make him take up the harp of life and go twanging it again. But oh, how weary I am! I know. No matter how often she came across this phase in love stories, there was never anything explanatory: as if all human beings perfectly understood. Nothing more forlorn could be conceived. We can’t be lovers in the ordinary sense, but we can be great and intimate friends. Her aunt did not object to capital punishment or war, or the industrial system or casual wards, or flogging of criminals or the Congo Free State, because none of these things really got hold of her imagination; but she did object, she did not like, she could not bear to think of people not having and enjoying their meals. There was some justification for her annoyance, for negotiation of the secret passage demanded either a stout heart, or a desperate one.
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