"And you're behind the times too, my dear.

No one dreams of reading this kind of thing now--antiquated problem plays, harrowing descriptions of life in the east end--oh, no, we've exploded all that.

Read poetry, Rachel, poetry, poetry, poetry!" Picking up one of the books, he began to read aloud, his intention being to satirise the short sharp bark of the writer's English; but she paid no attention, and after an interval of meditation exclaimed: "Does it ever seem to you, Terence, that the world is composed entirely of vast blocks of matter, and that we're nothing but patches of light--" she looked at the soft spots of sun wavering over the carpet and up the wall--"like that ?" "No," said Terence, "I feel solid; immensely solid; the legs of my chair might be rooted in the bowels of the earth.

But at Cambridge, I can remember, there were times when one fell into ridiculous states of semi-coma about five o'clock in the morning.

Hirst does now, I expect--oh, no, Hirst wouldn't." Rachel continued, "The day your note came, asking us to go on the picnic, I was sitting where you're sitting now, thinking that; I wonder if I could think that again?
I wonder if the world's changed?
and if so, when it'll stop changing, and which is the real world ?" "When I first saw you," he began, "I thought you were like a creature who'd lived all its life among pearls and old bones.