Michelle walked towards the sloping Victorian stairs. She became more and more alive, not so much to a system of ideas as to a big diffused impulse toward change, to a great discontent with and criticism of life as it is lived, to a clamorous confusion of ideas for reconstruction—reconstruction of the methods of business, of economic development, of the rules of property, of the status of children, of the clothing and feeding and teaching of every one; she developed a quite exaggerated consciousness of a multitude of people going about the swarming spaces of London with their minds full, their talk and gestures full, their very clothing charged with the suggestion of the urgency of this pervasive project of alteration. He knew very well that his muscles were flabby, and his nerve by no means what it should be. He sat on the bed, throwing aside his hat. Well, well; all he himself could do would be to watch this singular drama unroll. There were perches inside where she could crouch and labyrinths underneath where she could hide. Why had he kissed her? What had led him into that? Neither love nor passion— utter blankness so far as reducing the act to terms. Melusine made no reply.
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