Lest this should be wrong, she looked at himreading the little book with the shiny covermottled like a plover’s egg. No; it was right.Look at him now, she wanted to say aloud toJames. (But James had his eye on the sail.) Heis a sarcastic brute, James would say. He bringsthe talk round to himself and his books; Jameswould say. He is intolerably egotistical. Worstof all, he is a tyrant. But look! she said, lookingat him. He may be thinking.[%]Look at him now.She looked at him reading the little book withhis legs curled; the little book whose yellowishpages she knew, without knowing what was writtenon them. It was small; it was closely printed;on the fly-leaf she knew, he had written that hehad spent fifteen francs on dinner; the wine hadbeen so much; he had given so much to thewaiter; all was added up nearly at the bottom ofthe page. But what might be written in the bookwhich had rounded its edges off in his pocket, shedid not know. What he thought they none ofthem knew. But he was absorbed in it, so thatwhen he looked up, as he did now for an instant,it was not to see anything; it was to pin downsome thought[∧]moreexactly. That done, his mindflew back again and he plunged into his reading.He read, she thought, as if he were guiding some-thing, or wheedling a large flock of sheep, or294
Resize Images  

Select Pane

Berg Materials

View Pane