"That is what I mean by our being dreary.

You know it perfectly well; you only pretend that you don't." Felix gave a quick laugh.

"The half hour is going on, and yet you are handsomer than ever.

One must be careful what one says, you see." "To me," said Gertrude, "you can say anything." Felix looked at her, as an artist might, and painted for some time in silence.
"Yes, you seem to me different from your father and sister--from most of the people you have lived with," he observed.
"To say that one's self," Gertrude went on, "is like saying--by implication, at least--that one is better.

I am not better; I am much worse.