Manchurian Books

Effie, restless little
cockney that she was, rustled and struggled in a hedgerow below,
gathering flowers, discovering flowers she had never seen before. I
had. I remember, a letter from Marion in my pocket. I had even made some
tentatives for return, for a reconciliation; Heaven knows now how I
had put it! but her cold, ill-written letter repelled me. I perceived
I could never face that old inconclusive dullness of life again, that
stagnant disappointment. That, anyhow, wasn't possible. But what was
possible? I could see no way of honour or fine living before me at all.
"What am I to do with life?" that was the question that besieged me.
I wondered if all the world was even as I, urged to this by one motive
and to that by another, creatures of chance and impulse and unmeaning
traditions. Had I indeed to abide by what I had said and done and
chosen? Was there nothing for me in honour but to provide for Effie, go
back penitent to Marion and keep to my trade in rubbish--or find some
fresh one--and so work out the residue of my days? I didn't accept that
for a moment.


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