But after all, what did it matter whether she had secrets or not? To him she was not a woman but a symbol; and one did not investigate the antecedents of symbols. " As he said this, the carpenter patted the cheek of the little object of his benevolent professions, and, in so doing, unintentionally aroused him from his slumbers. ‘Inside, miss!’ ‘But what is it?’ ‘Quick! We need the major. She had grabbed! She became less and less attentive to his meditative, self-complacent fragments of talk as she told herself this. “I never planned it—And now I have begun—” She felt acutely that he was entitled to explanations, and as acutely that explanations were impossible that night. It's almost incredible.
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