“You see,” he said, “you are like an inaccessible gold-mine in all this sort of matter. He stood a little anxious and fussy, bothered by the responsibility of her, entirely careless of what her life was or was likely to be, ignoring her thoughts and feelings, ignorant of every fact of importance in her life, explaining everything he could not understand in her as nonsense and perversity, concerned only with a terror of bothers and undesirable situations. If you were a poet in need of rhymes, you had only to turn to a certain page. He will not come. She was leaning over him and he smelled her like he had never smelled anyone before.
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