She took up one of her father’s novels and put it down again, fretted up to her own room for some work, sat on her bed and meditated upon the room that she was now really abandoning forever, and returned at length with a stocking to darn. At that a new element poured into her excitement, an element of wild disgust and terror. “Why will you not be sensible? Go back to your old life and your old friends, and forget all about Paris and this absurd delusion of yours. Ah, if I had written that!" "Don't you want to live?" "I don't know; I really don't know. You will not find it else. Ah! I shall never forget the figure Jack cut on that occasion.
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