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He was in the mood to not talk with anyone and, as sometimes happened, felt perversely like surrounding himself with people to not-talk to.
Edwin had no idea what he ached for, no real sense of the shape of his ideal future. He only knew that if every day he made himself a little bit better—if he worked harder, if he learned more, more than anyone else—he might find it.
“We are man’s marvellous light / We hold the gifts of the dawn / From those now passed and gone / And carry them into the night.”
“All right. Books are at least somewhat less likely to hurl insults at one,” he said. “It is one of their major appeals,” said Courcey, and Robin found himself unexpectedly smiling.
Robin was following Edwin up the stairs and so had a perfect view of the way Edwin’s knuckles paled in a fist by his side, quickly released.
You look like a Turner painting and I want to learn your textures with my fingertips. You are the most fascinating thing in this beautiful house. I’d like to introduce my fists to whoever taught you to stop talking about the things that interest you.
And admission, even in his own head: I am nothing like you, and yet I feel more myself with you.
It didn’t take long to become so accustomed to something that you could describe the exact shape of its absence.
“They’re men.” “Why do you say that?” “Because if even a single woman was involved, they wouldn’t have decided that a man who’d been working there one day was a more likely source of information than a woman who’d been there for years.”
“And we are but feeble women,” said Miss Morrissey. “Woe.” “Your sister is a magician,” Robin said, pointing out what seemed the largest hole in this story. “Woe,” said Mrs. Kaur firmly, and Robin recalled what Miss Morrissey had said about the assumptions made by men.
