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Why couldn’t two unhappy people refresh each other on their way through this dusty business of life by a little talk—real, natural talk, about what they felt, what they would have liked, what they still tried to hope?
Lindsay Brown liked this
Was she, too, picturing what it would be like—the colour, the fragrance, the light, the soft lapping of the sea among little hot rocks? Colour, fragrance, light, sea; instead of Shaftesbury Avenue, and the wet omnibuses, and the fish department at Shoolbred’s, and the Tube to Hampstead, and dinner, and to-morrow the same and the day after the same and always the same.…
To be missed, to be needed, from whatever motive, was, she thought, better than the complete loneliness of not being missed or needed at all.
Such beauty; and she there to see it. Such beauty; and she alive to feel it.
Lindsay Brown liked this
So funny to worry about such little things, making them important.
this was the simple happiness of complete harmony with her surroundings, the happiness that asks for nothing, that just accepts, just breathes, just is.
it had suddenly seemed as if her life had been a noise all about nothing.
She wanted to be alone, but not lonely.
There was so much beauty, so much more than enough for every one, that it did appear to be a vain activity to try and make a corner in it.
Beauty made you love, and love made you beautiful….
