She dropped a flower—it’s in my pocket-book now. But that other world, in spite of her resolute exclusion of it, was always looking round corners and peeping through chinks and crannies, and rustling and raiding into the order in which she chose to live, shining out of pictures at her, echoing in lyrics and music; it invaded her dreams, it wrote up broken and enigmatical sentences upon the passage walls of her mind. This is part of a dream— some evil fancy. John caught her in the hall around third period. Oh, you must believe me. None at all. Her sadness was manageable only because she was so familiar with its phases, because she could observe its moods remotely, like an astronomer studying the moon. I’ve a dread of love dropping its petals, becoming mean and ugly. "I'm not worth it.
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