She did not understand music and it upset her, it had only sad, tragic things to say. These leaping forms, these pursuits and insistences, these elusive desperate repetitions, always seemed to her like one long cry of agony. She could not, in this company, allow herself the luxury of self-pitying tears, which was her highest tribute to the art. She looked about her and let the music gather to her the people with whom she was so deeply concerned.

I am just a past with no present.

I am out of the saga, he thought. He had a heavy sense of being left in total isolation; everyone had withdrawn from him and the person who could most have helped him was pre-empted by another.

He felt sad, sad.

Yet it was not that a rapture or a glory which had once shone around her had passed away from the world. The rapture and the glory whose hauntings she suffered had never manifested themselves in her life at all.

She thought sadly, gaiety and laughter are not in my destiny.

Then she thought, is this really all I have to look forward to, is this what I have to comfort myself with?

How can one discover what he feels?""I thought he might perhaps behave — quite differently with you?""No, no. We seem to know each other well but I think that's just because I parade my feelings. He's affectionate, detached, passive, absolutely passive.""He's never told you about that place?""He's never talked about himself at all.

Settle down! she thought. Yes, settle down into dreariness and quietness and forgetfulness and boredom.