As he watched her sleeping, under wretched and insufficient blankets, in the cold nights which swooped down after the panting sun-drenched days, his dry heart blossomed in tenderness. . . . To think that he had once esteemed people because they understood Goossens's music or James Joyce's fiction, because they wore sleek clothes and were clever at the use of forks, because they could set up wooden words as a barricade against roaring life!
You poor kids! You talking children, that don't know anything about anything that matters! Don't you see? I can't play either of your games. I'm ME! I'm going to be me! Oh, if you do love me a little, let me be me! Good-by.