You sink to the third hell of depression when you think you've been slighted.

In fact, you haven't much self-respect." "Centre of target twice, Clara.

How do you do it?
You never let me say a word." "Of course not--I can never judge a man while he's talking.

But I'm not through; the reason you have so little real self-confidence, even though you gravely announce to the occasional philistine that you think you're a genius, is that you've attributed all sorts of atrocious faults to yourself and are trying to live up to them.

For instance, you're always saying that you are a slave to high-balls." "But I am, potentially." "And you say you're a weak character, that you've no will." "Not a bit of will--I'm a slave to my emotions, to my likes, to my hatred of boredom, to most of my desires--" "You are not!" She brought one little fist down onto the other.
"You're a slave, a bound helpless slave to one thing in the world, your imagination." "You certainly interest me.