Hadn't they better be animals, simple animals, crude, violent, ANYTHING, rather than this self-consciousness, this incapacity to be spontaneous.' They thought she had finished.

But with a queer rumbling in her throat she resumed, 'Hadn't they better be anything than grow up crippled, crippled in their souls, crippled in their feelings--so thrown back--so turned back on themselves--incapable--' Hermione clenched her fist like one in a trance--'of any spontaneous action, always deliberate, always burdened with choice, never carried away.' Again they thought she had finished.

But just as he was going to reply, she resumed her queer rhapsody--'never carried away, out of themselves, always conscious, always self-conscious, always aware of themselves.
Isn't ANYTHING better than this?
Better be animals, mere animals with no mind at all, than this, this NOTHINGNESS--' 'But do you think it is knowledge that makes us unliving and selfconscious ?' he asked irritably.
She opened her eyes and looked at him slowly.
'Yes,' she said.

She paused, watching him all the while, her eyes vague.

Then she wiped her fingers across her brow, with a vague weariness.