“No, no,” she cried. I shall give you my life, every moment and thought of my life. It seems to me very silly. The books would be soaked and ruined in the rain anyway through the thin skin of the pack. Now you can understand why every minute is a torture to me. 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. ’ ‘You need not be a nun,’ he said, leaning towards her. ‘It is you who is the fool,’ she threw at him, whipping round again.
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