” Lucy said, leading him upstairs behind her. ‘Wait for me. There was a wild light in her eye, and her straight hair was out demonstrating and suffragetting upon some independent notions of its own. The pursuit of pleasure, selfgratification, is an original instinct with her. That is what terrified her: the consciousness that nothing in her life would be continuous, that she would no sooner form friendships (like the present) than relentless fate would thrust her into a new circle. "Look at it!" he felt like screaming. She refrained. Why should she trouble herself over that young fool, who was nothing to her; who, when he eventually sobered up, would not be able to recognize her, or if he did, as something phantasmagorical? Perhaps he should not apply the term "fool"; "unfortunate" might be the more accurate application.
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