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272 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1944
And then, when I had cried myself into an empty hollow shell, a thought struck me. Was my trouble merely that I wanted to be loved? Not that I myself loved too easily or too well? It was feasible. Nobody had loved me yet. Mother hadn’t, or she would not have left me behind. Father didn’t, or he would have gained some comfort from my presence. Charles hadn’t, that was plain. And so, aware of a great lack in my life, I ran round seeking love, like a hungry puppy seeking for food and, like a puppy, courting rebuffs and disappointments.
‘Thank you,’ she said calmly. ‘Yes, you liked him. Many people didn’t. The rich men hated him because he tried to make them see reason and the poor men hated him because he tried to make them see sense. And between them he’s dead now. That’s what you get for being good .’ The faintest trace of wildness crept into her eyes and her voice. She let go of the chair back. ‘For being good,’ she repeated. ‘You’d better mark that, Barney. Because you could be good too. I can see it in you sometimes. But now you know. Don’t let being good make a mess of your life, like he did.’ The little wild flash faded and her face went calm again.