“I cannot conceive,” he said, “how any other occupation could ever have occurred to you. For such of us as pretend to be wise—and we are but fools in a lesser degree—we know that humanity moves onward only by the impellant of fine dreams. She had lost her nerve, and there was no more freedom in London for her that night. Slipshod; follow me. My father died a year ago, by the way. She tried to imagine herself “getting something,” to project herself as sitting down at a desk and writing, or as returning after her work to some pleasantly equipped and free and independent flat.
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