With a gesture which was without any kind of emotional expression, the manager indicated the silent crumpled figure on the floor and gave the room number. “I wonder,” she said, “why one writes him sentences like that? It’ll have to go,” she decided, “I’ve written too many already. ” She spoke like a mistress addressing school-children. " And springing backwards, he darted suddenly through the door. Listen to me, Winifred. Anything in the least irregular is like poison to him. Why wasn't the world full of love, when love made happiness? Why did people hide their natural kindliness as if it were something shameful? Why shouldn't people say what they thought and act as they were inclined? Why all this pother about what one's neighbour thought, when this pother was not energized by any good will? Why was truth avoided as the plague? Why did this young man have one name on the hotel register and another on his lips? Why was she bothering about him at all? Why should there be this inexplicable compassion, when the normal sensation should have been repellance? Sidney Carton.
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