It all had to be squeezed and squeezed again, to provide a thrill, to provide enjoyment. What did people mean, with their simply determined enjoying of themselves?

He doesn't have feelings, he only has streams of words about feelings.

I'd rather be at Wragby, where I can go about and be still, and not stare at anything or do any performing of any sort. This tourist performance of enjoying oneself is too hopelessly humiliating: it's such a failure.

And how they take one in, with their manners and their mock wistfulness and gentleness.