” She was silent for a time, with her nose on the pillow, and that brought her to: “What’s the good of pretending? “I love him,” she said aloud to the dim forms of her room, and repeated it, and went on to imagine herself doing acts of tragically dog-like devotion to the biologist, who, for the purposes of the drama, remained entirely unconscious of and indifferent to her proceedings. I’m a female thing at bottom. Tristan dying and Isolde coming to crown his death. Then, her body still tense with the atoms of anger, she sat down upon the edge of the bed and rocked from side to side. Another day of nonsuccess would mean many disagreeable things.
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