It was that
slowness, that confidence, that content which she hated, she thought to
herself. They moved so slowly because they were not single but double,
and Susan was attached to Arthur, and Rachel to Terence, and for the
sake of this one man they had renounced all other men, and movement, and
the real things of life. Love was all very well, and those snug domestic
houses, with the kitchen below and the nursery above, which were so
secluded and self-contained, like little islands in the torrents of the
world; but the real things were surely the things that happened, the
causes, the wars, the ideals, which happened in the great world outside,
and went so independently of these women, turning so quietly and
beautifully towards the men. She looked at them sharply. Of course
they were happy and content, but there must be better things than that.
Surely one could get nearer to life, one could get more out of life,
one could enjoy more and feel more than they would ever do. Rachel in
particular looked so young--what could she know of life? She became
restless, and getting up, crossed over to sit beside Rachel. She
reminded her that she had promised to join her club.
"The bother is," she went on, "that I mayn't be able to start work
seriously till October. I've just had a letter from a friend of mine
whose brother is in business in Moscow.
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