But there's an extraordinary satisfaction in writing, even in the attempt to write.

What you said just now is true: one doesn't want to be things; one wants merely to be allowed to see them." Some of the satisfaction of which he spoke came into his face as he gazed out to sea.
It was Rachel's turn now to feel depressed.

As he talked of writing he had become suddenly impersonal.

He might never care for any one; all that desire to know her and get at her, which she had felt pressing on her almost painfully, had completely vanished.
"Are you a good writer ?" she asked.
"Yes," he said.

"I'm not first-rate, of course; I'm good second-rate; about as good as Thackeray, I should say." Rachel was amazed.