All the world about her seemed to be—how can one put it?—in wrappers, like a house when people leave it in the summer. “I am glad,” she told herself, “I came. And she would have rushed to him, if she had not been forcibly withheld by her son. She pulled at his tee shirt again, wishing to feel his naked chest upon hers. Why wasn't the world full of love, when love made happiness? Why did people hide their natural kindliness as if it were something shameful? Why shouldn't people say what they thought and act as they were inclined? Why all this pother about what one's neighbour thought, when this pother was not energized by any good will? Why was truth avoided as the plague? Why did this young man have one name on the hotel register and another on his lips? Why was she bothering about him at all? Why should there be this inexplicable compassion, when the normal sensation should have been repellance? Sidney Carton.
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