” She was silent for a time, with her nose on the pillow, and that brought her to: “What’s the good of pretending? “I love him,” she said aloud to the dim forms of her room, and repeated it, and went on to imagine herself doing acts of tragically dog-like devotion to the biologist, who, for the purposes of the drama, remained entirely unconscious of and indifferent to her proceedings. They were on their way back home, or so she had thought. There’s something—puppyish in a man’s usual attitude to women. "Well," she said, as they reached the hotel portal, "what is your advice?" "Would you follow it?" "Probably not. He admitted that it would bore him to dally here in Canton, with the pleasures of Hong-Kong so close. Blotted out—Love! With infinite care, through nearly a thousand pages, her father had obliterated the word Love.
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