'
'It contains, I suppose, your developed thoughts in embryo?'
'Yes.'
'If they are interesting when enlarged to the size of an article,
what must they be in their concentrated form? Pure rectified
spirit, above proof; before it is lowered to be fit for human
consumption: "words that burn" indeed.'
'Rather like a balloon before it is inflated: flabby, shapeless,
dead. You could hardly read them.'
'May I try?' she said coaxingly. 'I wrote my poor romance in that
way--I mean in bits, out of doors--and I should like to see
whether your way of entering things is the same as mine.'
'Really, that's rather an awkward request. I suppose I can hardly
refuse now you have asked so directly; but----'
'You think me ill-mannered in asking. But does not this justify
me--your writing in my presence, Mr. Knight? If I had lighted upon
your book by chance, it would have been different; but you stand
before me, and say, "Excuse me," without caring whether I do or
not, and write on, and then tell me they are not private facts but
public ideas.'
'Very well, Miss Swancourt. If you really must see, the
consequences be upon your own head. Remember, my advice to you is
to leave my book alone.'
'But with that caution I have your permission?'
'Yes.'
She hesitated a moment, looked at his hand containing the book,
then laughed, and saying, 'I must see it,' withdrew it from his
fingers.
Knight rambled on towards the house, leaving her standing in the
path turning over the leaves.
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