A Room with a View

Any one can find places, but the finding of people is a gift from God.

don't mean by that that he has bad manners--and he will not keep his opinions to himself

I was hoping that he was nice; I do so always hope that people will be nice."

“Hard in life, hard in death. Go out into the sun­shine, little boy, and kiss your hand to the sun, for that is where you ought to be. In­tol­er­able bishop!”

“Hard in life, hard in death. Go out into the sun­shine, little boy, and kiss your hand to the sun, for that is where you ought to be. In­tol­er­able bishop!”

Hard in life, hard in death. Go out into the sun­shine, little boy, and kiss your hand to the sun, for that is where you ought to be. In­tol­er­able bishop!”

She could never marry. In the tu­mult of her soul, that stood firm. Ce­cil be­lieved in her; she must some day be­lieve in her­self. She must be one of the wo­men whom she had praised so elo­quently, who care for liberty and not for men; she must for­get that Ge­orge loved her, that Ge­orge had been think­ing through her and gained her this hon­our­able re­lease, that Ge­orge had gone away into—what was it?—the dark­ness

She could never marry. In the tu­mult of her soul, that stood firm. Ce­cil be­lieved in her; she must some day be­lieve in her­self. She must be one of the wo­men whom she had praised so elo­quently, who care for liberty and not for men; she must for­get that Ge­orge loved her, that Ge­orge had been think­ing through her and gained her this hon­our­able re­lease, that Ge­orge had gone away into—what was it?—the dark­ness

“Be­cause”—a phrase came to her, and she ac­cep­ted it—“you’re the sort who can’t know any­one in­tim­ately.”

A hor­ri­fied look came into his eyes.

“I don’t mean ex­actly that. But you will ques­tion me, though I beg you not to, and I must say some­thing. It is that, more or less. When we were only ac­quaint­ances, you let me be my­self, but now you’re al­ways pro­tect­ing me.” Her voice swelled. “I won’t be pro­tec­ted. I will choose for my­self what is lady­like and right. To shield me is an in­sult. Can’t I be trus­ted to face the truth but I must get it second­hand through you? A wo­man’s place! You des­pise my mother—I know you do—be­cause she’s con­ven­tional and both­ers over pud­dings; but, oh good­ness!”—she rose to her feet—“con­ven­tional, Ce­cil, you’re that, for you may un­der­stand beau­ti­ful things, but you don’t know how to use them; and you wrap your­self up in art and books and mu­sic, and would try to wrap up me. I won’t be stifled, not by the most glor­i­ous mu­sic

By a cruel irony she was draw­ing out all that was finest in his dis­pos­i­tion