Now the pig knew where to find her—for it would not take long for a Catholic to locate the convent in Golden Square—even if she escaped him here. “I wonder,” she said, “why one writes him sentences like that? It’ll have to go,” she decided, “I’ve written too many already. ” They stared at each other through a pause, and both faces were flushed and obstinate. One’s got to be a better man than one’s father, or what is the good of successive generations? Life is rebellion, or nothing. , and munched a roll and butter with hearty appetite. How long he sat there, reeling off this drivel, he never knew.
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