We love ourselves, noting more.
At that intense soft bitterness in her voice, he gets up,
feeling stifled, and stands at the window. A newspaper boy some
way off is calling his wares. The GIRL's fingers slip between
his own, and stay unmoving. He looks round into her face. In
spite of make-up it has a queer, unholy, touching beauty.
YOUNG OFF. [With an outburst] No; we don't only love ourselves;
there is more. I can't explain, but there's something great; there's
kindness--and--and-----
[The shouting of newspaper boys grows louder and their cries,
passionately vehement, clash into each other and obscure each
word. His head goes up to listen; her hand tightens within his
arm--she too is listening. The cries come nearer, hoarser, more
shrill and clamorous; the empty moonlight outside seems suddenly
crowded with figures, footsteps, voices, and a fierce distant
cheering. "Great victory--great victory! Official! British!
'Eavy defeat of the 'Uns! Many thousand prisoners! 'Eavy
defeat!" It speeds by, intoxicating, filling him with a fearful
joy; he leans far out, waving his cap and cheering like a
madman; the night seems to flutter and vibrate and answer.
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