“
She lifted her head. “It’s raining,” she murmured. And her voice was like his when he had said: “I love that little boy.” Well. Why didn’t they just give way to it—yield—and see what will happen then? But no. Vague and troubled though they were, they knew enough to realize their precious friendship was in danger. She was the one who would be destroyed—not they—and they’d be no party to that. He got up, knocked out his pipe, ran his hand through his hair, and said: “I have been wondering very much lately whether the novel of the future will be a psychological novel or not. How sure are you that psychology qua psychology has got anything to do with literature at all?” “Do you mean you feel there’s quite a chance that the mysterious non-existent creatures—the young writers of to-day—are trying simply to jump the psycho-analyst’s claim?” “Yes, I do. And I think it’s because this generation is just wise enough to know that it is sick and to realize that its only chance of recovery is by going into its symptoms 去书内
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