He had an air of having told her a deep, personal secret. He was and always would be dramatizing his emotions; perpetually he would be confounding his actual with his imaginary self. She propped a pillow against his padded headboard and sat herself into a stiff upright position, legs expertly crossed. But she was not sure just how to reach it. They don’t catch on to discursive interests, you see, because they are more serious, they are concentrated on the central reality of life, and a little impatient of its—its outer aspects. They ought to put a lamp. “Not really. But I do not know you at all, in truth, and I do not understand why you do this.
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