["[Event happened on 2024-01-01 The user is reading a book]\n<User> DEFEAT OF MIRIAM\n\nPAUL was dissatisfied with himself and with everything. The deepest\nof his love belonged to his mother. When he felt he had hurt her, or\nwounded his love for her, he could not bear it. Now it was spring, and\nthere was battle between him and Miriam. This year he had a good deal\nagainst her. She was vaguely aware of it. The old feeling that she was\nto be a sacrifice to this love, which she had had when she prayed, was\nmingled in all her emotions. She did not at the bottom believe she\never would have him. She did not believe in herself primarily: doubted\nwhether she could ever be what he would demand of her. Certainly she\nnever saw herself living happily through a lifetime with him. She saw\ntragedy, sorrow, and sacrifice ahead. And in sacrifice she was proud,\nin renunciation she was strong, for she did not trust herself to support\neveryday life. She was prepared for the big things and the deep things,\nlike tragedy. It was the sufficiency of the small day-life she could not\ntrust. The Easter holidays began happily. Paul was his own frank self. Yet she\nfelt it would go wrong. On the Sunday afternoon she stood at her bedroom\nwindow, looking across at the oak-trees of the wood, in whose branches a\ntwilight was tangled, below the bright sky of the afternoon. Grey-green\nrosettes of honeysuckle leaves hung before the window, some already, she\nfancied, showing bud. It was spring, which she loved and dreaded. Hearing the clack of the gate she stood in suspense. It was a bright\ngrey day. Paul came into the yard with his bicycle, which glittered\nas he walked. Usually he rang his bell and laughed towards the house. To-day he walked with shut lips and cold, cruel bearing, that had\nsomething of a slouch and a sneer in it. She knew him well by now, and\ncould tell from that keen-looking, aloof young body of his what was\nhappening inside him. There was a cold correctness in the way he put his\nbicycle in its place, that made her heart sink. She came downstairs nervously. She was wearing a new net blouse that she\nthought became her. It had a high collar with a tiny ruff, reminding her\nof Mary, Queen of Scots, and making her, she thought, look wonderfully\na woman, and dignified. At twenty she was full-breasted and luxuriously\nformed. Her face was still like a soft rich mask, unchangeable. But\nher eyes, once lifted, were wonderful. She was afraid of him. He would\nnotice her new blouse. He, being in a hard, ironical mood, was entertaining the family to\na description of a service given in the Primitive Methodist Chapel,\nconducted by one of the well-known preachers of the sect. He sat at\nthe head of the table, his mobile face, with the eyes that could be so\nbeautiful, shining with tenderness or dancing with laughter, now taking\non one expression and then another, in imitation of various people he\nwas mocking. His mockery always hurt her; it was too near the reality. He was too clever and cruel. She felt that when his eyes were like this,\nhard with mocking hate, he would spare neither himself nor anybody else. But Mrs. Leivers was wiping her eyes with laughter, and Mr. Leivers,\njust awake from his Sunday nap, was rubbing his head in amusement. The three brothers sat with ruffled, sleepy appearance in their\nshirt-sleeves, giving a guffaw from time to time. The whole family loved\na \"take-off\" more than anything. He took no notice of Miriam. Later, she saw him remark her new blouse,\nsaw that the artist approved, but it won from him not a spark of warmth. She was nervous, could hardly reach the teacups from the shelves. When the men went out to milk, she ventured to address him personally. \"You were late,\" she said. \"Was I?\" he answered. There was silence for a while. \"Was it rough riding?\" she asked. \"I didn't notice it.\" She continued quickly to lay the table. When she\nhad finished--\n\n\"Tea won't be for a few minutes. Will you come and look at the\ndaffodils?\" she said. He rose without answering. They went out into the back garden under\nthe budding damson-trees. The hills and the sky were clean and cold. Everything looked washed, rather hard. Miriam glanced at Paul. He was\npale and impassive. It seemed cruel to her that his eyes and brows,\nwhich she loved, could look so hurting. \"Has the wind made you tired?\" she asked. She detected an underneath\nfeeling of weariness about him. \"No, I think not,\" he answered. \"It must be rough on the road--the wood moans so.\" \"You can see by the clouds it's a south-west wind; that helps me here.\" \"You see, I don't cycle, so I don't understand,\" she murmured. \"Is there need to cycle to know that!\" he said. She thought his sarcasms were unnecessary. They went forward in silence. Round the wild, tussocky lawn at the back of the house was a thorn\nhedge, under which daffodils were craning forward from among their\nsheaves of grey-green blades. The cheeks of the flowers were greenish\nwith cold. But still some had burst, and their gold ruffled and glowed. Miriam went on her knees before one cluster, took a wild-looking\ndaffodil between her hands, turned up its face of gold to her, and bowed\ndown, caressing it with her mouth and cheeks and brow. He stood aside,\nwith his hands in his pockets, watching her. One after another she\nturned up to him the faces of the yellow, bursten flowers appealingly,\nfondling them lavishly all the while. \"Aren't they magnificent?\" she murmured. \"Magnificent! It's a bit thick--they're pretty!\" She bowed again to her flowers at his censure of her praise. He watched\nher crouching, sipping the flowers with fervid kisses. \"Why must you always be fondling things?\" he said irritably. \"But I love to touch them,\" she replied, hurt. \"Can you never like things without clutching them as if you wanted to\npull the heart out of them? Why don't you have a bit more restraint, or\nreserve, or something?\" She looked up at him full of pain, then continued slowly to stroke her\nlips against a ruffled flower. Their scent, as she smelled it, was so\nmuch kinder than he; it almost made her cry. \"You wheedle the soul out of things,\" he said. \"I would never\nwheedle--at any rate, I'd go straight.\" He scarcely knew what he was saying. These things came from him\nmechanically. She looked at him. His body seemed one weapon, firm and\nhard against her. \"You're always begging things to love you,\" he said, \"as if you were a\nbeggar for love. Even the flowers, you have to fawn on them--\"\n\nRhythmically, Miriam was swaying and stroking the flower with her mouth,\ninhaling the scent which ever after made her shudder as it came to her\nnostrils. \"You don't want to love--your eternal and abnormal craving is to be\nloved. You aren't positive, you're negative. You absorb, absorb, as\nif you must fill yourself up with love, because you've got a shortage\nsomewhere.\" She was stunned by his cruelty, and did not hear. He had not the\nfaintest notion of what he was saying. It was as if his fretted,\ntortured soul, run hot by thwarted passion, jetted off these sayings\nlike sparks from electricity. She did not grasp anything he said. She\nonly sat crouched beneath his cruelty and his hatred of her. She never\nrealised in a flash. Over everything she brooded and brooded. After tea he stayed with Edgar and the brothers, taking no notice of\nMiriam. She, extremely unhappy on this looked-for holiday, waited for\nhim. And at last he yielded and came to her. She was determined to track\nthis mood of his to its origin. She counted it not much more than a\nmood. \"Shall we go through the wood a little way?\" she asked him, knowing he\nnever refused a direct request. They went down to the warren. On the middle path they passed a trap, a\nnarrow horseshoe hedge of small fir-boughs, baited with the guts of a\nrabbit. Paul glanced at it frowning. She caught his eye. \"Isn't it dreadful?\" she asked. \"I don't know! Is it worse than a weasel with its teeth in a rabbit's\nthroat? One weasel or many rabbits?\n\n<System> Please remember what the user reads on 2024-01-01, save the details within the book, and retain a summary of the book the user has read so far.", "[Event happened on 2024-01-03 The user is reading a book]\n<User> One or the other must go!\" He was taking the bitterness of life badly. She was rather sorry for\nhim. \"We will go back to the house,\" he said. \"I don't want to walk out.\" They went past the lilac-tree, whose bronze leaf-buds were coming\nunfastened. Just a fragment remained of the haystack, a monument squared\nand brown, like a pillar of stone. There was a little bed of hay from\nthe last cutting. \"Let us sit here a minute,\" said Miriam. He sat down against his will, resting his back against the hard wall of\nhay. They faced the amphitheatre of round hills that glowed with sunset,\ntiny white farms standing out, the meadows golden, the woods dark and\nyet luminous, tree-tops folded over tree-tops, distinct in the distance. The evening had cleared, and the east was tender with a magenta flush\nunder which the land lay still and rich. \"Isn't it beautiful?\" she pleaded. But he only scowled. He would rather have had it ugly just then. At that moment a big bull-terrier came rushing up, open-mouthed, pranced\nhis two paws on the youth's shoulders, licking his face. Paul drew back,\nlaughing. Bill was a great relief to him. He pushed the dog aside, but\nit came leaping back. \"Get out,\" said the lad, \"or I'll dot thee one.\" But the dog was not to be pushed away. So Paul had a little battle\nwith the creature, pitching poor Bill away from him, who, however,\nonly floundered tumultuously back again, wild with joy. The two fought\ntogether, the man laughing grudgingly, the dog grinning all over. Miriam\nwatched them. There was something pathetic about the man. He wanted so\nbadly to love, to be tender. The rough way he bowled the dog over was\nreally loving. Bill got up, panting with happiness, his brown eyes\nrolling in his white face, and lumbered back again. He adored Paul. The\nlad frowned. \"Bill, I've had enough o' thee,\" he said. But the dog only stood with two heavy paws, that quivered with love,\nupon his thigh, and flickered a red tongue at him. He drew back. \"No,\" he said--\"no--I've had enough.\" And in a minute the dog trotted off happily, to vary the fun. He remained staring miserably across at the hills, whose still beauty\nhe begrudged. He wanted to go and cycle with Edgar. Yet he had not the\ncourage to leave Miriam. \"Why are you sad?\" she asked humbly. \"I'm not sad; why should I be,\" he answered. \"I'm only normal.\" She wondered why he always claimed to be normal when he was\ndisagreeable. \"But what is the matter?\" she pleaded, coaxing him soothingly. \"Nothing!\" \"Nay!\" she murmured. He picked up a stick and began to stab the earth with it. \"You'd far better not talk,\" he said. \"But I wish to know--\" she replied. He laughed resentfully. \"You always do,\" he said. \"It's not fair to me,\" she murmured. He thrust, thrust, thrust at the ground with the pointed stick, digging\nup little clods of earth as if he were in a fever of irritation. She\ngently and firmly laid her band on his wrist. \"Don't!\" she said. \"Put it away.\" He flung the stick into the currant-bushes, and leaned back. Now he was\nbottled up. \"What is it?\" she pleaded softly. He lay perfectly still, only his eyes alive, and they full of torment. \"You know,\" he said at length, rather wearily--\"you know--we'd better\nbreak off.\" It was what she dreaded. Swiftly everything seemed to darken before her\neyes. \"Why!\" she murmured. \"What has happened?\" \"Nothing has happened. We only realise where we are. It's no good--\"\n\nShe waited in silence, sadly, patiently. It was no good being impatient\nwith him. At any rate, he would tell her now what ailed him. \"We agreed on friendship,\" he went on in a dull, monotonous voice. \"How\noften HAVE we agreed for friendship! And yet--it neither stops there,\nnor gets anywhere else.\" He was silent again. She brooded. What did he mean? He was so wearying. There was something he would not yield. Yet she must be patient with\nhim. \"I can only give friendship--it's all I'm capable of--it's a flaw in my\nmake-up. The thing overbalances to one side--I hate a toppling balance. Let us have done.\" There was warmth of fury in his last phrases. He meant she loved him\nmore than he her. Perhaps he could not love her. Perhaps she had not\nin herself that which he wanted. It was the deepest motive of her\nsoul, this self-mistrust. It was so deep she dared neither realise nor\nacknowledge. Perhaps she was deficient. Like an infinitely subtle shame,\nit kept her always back. If it were so, she would do without him. She\nwould never let herself want him. She would merely see. \"But what has happened?\" she said. \"Nothing--it's all in myself--it only comes out just now. We're always\nlike this towards Easter-time.\" He grovelled so helplessly, she pitied him. At least she never\nfloundered in such a pitiable way. After all, it was he who was chiefly\nhumiliated. \"What do you want?\" she asked him. \"Why--I mustn't come often--that's all. Why should I monopolise you when\nI'm not--You see, I'm deficient in something with regard to you--\"\n\nHe was telling her he did not love her, and so ought to leave her a\nchance with another man. How foolish and blind and shamefully clumsy he\nwas! What were other men to her! What were men to her at all! But he,\nah! she loved his soul. Was HE deficient in something? Perhaps he was. \"But I don't understand,\" she said huskily. \"Yesterday--\"\n\nThe night was turning jangled and hateful to him as the twilight faded. And she bowed under her suffering. \"I know,\" he cried, \"you never will! You'll never believe that I\ncan't--can't physically, any more than I can fly up like a skylark--\"\n\n\"What?\" she murmured. Now she dreaded. \"Love you.\" He hated her bitterly at that moment because he made her suffer. Love\nher! She knew he loved her. He really belonged to her. This about not\nloving her, physically, bodily, was a mere perversity on his part,\nbecause he knew she loved him. He was stupid like a child. He belonged\nto her. His soul wanted her. She guessed somebody had been influencing\nhim. She felt upon him the hardness, the foreignness of another\ninfluence. \"What have they been saying at home?\" she asked. \"It's not that,\" he answered. And then she knew it was. She despised them for their commonness, his\npeople. They did not know what things were really worth. He and she talked very little more that night. After all he left her to\ncycle with Edgar. He had come back to his mother. Hers was the strongest tie in his life. When he thought round, Miriam shrank away. There was a vague, unreal\nfeel about her. And nobody else mattered. There was one place in the\nworld that stood solid and did not melt into unreality: the place where\nhis mother was. Everybody else could grow shadowy, almost non-existent\nto him, but she could not. It was as if the pivot and pole of his life,\nfrom which he could not escape, was his mother. And in the same way she waited for him. In him was established her life\nnow. After all, the life beyond offered very little to Mrs. Morel. She\nsaw that our chance for DOING is here, and doing counted with her. Paul\nwas going to prove that she had been right; he was going to make a man\nwhom nothing should shift off his feet; he was going to alter the face\nof the earth in some way which mattered. Wherever he went she felt her\nsoul went with him. Whatever he did she felt her soul stood by him,\nready, as it were, to hand him his tools. She could not bear it when he\nwas with Miriam. William was dead. She would fight to keep Paul. And he came back to her. And in his soul was a feeling of the\nsatisfaction of self-sacrifice because he was faithful to her. She loved\nhim first; he loved her first.\n\n<System> Please remember what the user reads on 2024-01-03, save the details within the book, and retain a summary of the book the user has read so far.", "[Event happened on 2024-01-04 The user is reading a book]\n<User> And yet it was not enough. His new young\nlife, so strong and imperious, was urged towards something else. It made\nhim mad with restlessness. She saw this, and wished bitterly that Miriam\nhad been a woman who could take this new life of his, and leave her the\nroots. He fought against his mother almost as he fought against Miriam. It was a week before he went again to Willey Farm. Miriam had suffered\na great deal, and was afraid to see him again. Was she now to endure\nthe ignominy of his abandoning her? That would only be superficial\nand temporary. He would come back. She held the keys to his soul. But\nmeanwhile, how he would torture her with his battle against her. She\nshrank from it. However, the Sunday after Easter he came to tea. Mrs. Leivers was glad\nto see him. She gathered something was fretting him, that he found\nthings hard. He seemed to drift to her for comfort. And she was good\nto him. She did him that great kindness of treating him almost with\nreverence. He met her with the young children in the front garden. \"I'm glad you've come,\" said the mother, looking at him with her great\nappealing brown eyes. \"It is such a sunny day. I was just going down the\nfields for the first time this year.\" He felt she would like him to come. That soothed him. They went, talking\nsimply, he gentle and humble. He could have wept with gratitude that she\nwas deferential to him. He was feeling humiliated. At the bottom of the Mow Close they found a thrush's nest. \"Shall I show you the eggs?\" he said. \"Do!\" replied Mrs. Leivers. \"They seem SUCH a sign of spring, and so\nhopeful.\" He put aside the thorns, and took out the eggs, holding them in the palm\nof his hand. \"They are quite hot--I think we frightened her off them,\" he said. \"Ay, poor thing!\" said Mrs. Leivers. Miriam could not help touching the eggs, and his hand which, it seemed\nto her, cradled them so well. \"Isn't it a strange warmth!\" she murmured, to get near him. \"Blood heat,\" he answered. She watched him putting them back, his body pressed against the hedge,\nhis arm reaching slowly through the thorns, his hand folded carefully\nover the eggs. He was concentrated on the act. Seeing him so, she loved\nhim; he seemed so simple and sufficient to himself. And she could not\nget to him. After tea she stood hesitating at the bookshelf. He took \"Tartarin de\nTarascon\". Again they sat on the bank of hay at the foot of the stack. He read a couple of pages, but without any heart for it. Again the dog\ncame racing up to repeat the fun of the other day. He shoved his muzzle\nin the man's chest. Paul fingered his ear for a moment. Then he pushed\nhim away. \"Go away, Bill,\" he said. \"I don't want you.\" Bill slunk off, and Miriam wondered and dreaded what was coming. There\nwas a silence about the youth that made her still with apprehension. It\nwas not his furies, but his quiet resolutions that she feared. Turning his face a little to one side, so that she could not see him, he\nbegan, speaking slowly and painfully:\n\n\"Do you think--if I didn't come up so much--you might get to like\nsomebody else--another man?\" So this was what he was still harping on. \"But I don't know any other men. Why do you ask?\" she replied, in a low\ntone that should have been a reproach to him. \"Why,\" he blurted, \"because they say I've no right to come up like\nthis--without we mean to marry--\"\n\nMiriam was indignant at anybody's forcing the issues between them. She\nhad been furious with her own father for suggesting to Paul, laughingly,\nthat he knew why he came so much. \"Who says?\" she asked, wondering if her people had anything to do with\nit. They had not. \"Mother--and the others. They say at this rate everybody will consider\nme engaged, and I ought to consider myself so, because it's not fair to\nyou. And I've tried to find out--and I don't think I love you as a man\nought to love his wife. What do you think about it?\" Miriam bowed her head moodily. She was angry at having this struggle. People should leave him and her alone. \"I don't know,\" she murmured. \"Do you think we love each other enough to marry?\" he asked definitely. It made her tremble. \"No,\" she answered truthfully. \"I don't think so--we're too young.\" \"I thought perhaps,\" he went on miserably, \"that you, with your\nintensity in things, might have given me more--than I could ever make up\nto you. And even now--if you think it better--we'll be engaged.\" Now Miriam wanted to cry. And she was angry, too. He was always such a\nchild for people to do as they liked with. \"No, I don't think so,\" she said firmly. He pondered a minute. \"You see,\" he said, \"with me--I don't think one person would ever\nmonopolize me--be everything to me--I think never.\" This she did not consider. \"No,\" she murmured. Then, after a pause, she looked at him, and her dark\neyes flashed. \"This is your mother,\" she said. \"I know she never liked me.\" \"No, no, it isn't,\" he said hastily. \"It was for your sake she spoke\nthis time. She only said, if I was going on, I ought to consider myself\nengaged.\" There was a silence. \"And if I ask you to come down any time,\nyou won't stop away, will you?\" She did not answer. By this time she was very angry. \"Well, what shall we do?\" she said shortly. \"I suppose I'd better drop\nFrench. I was just beginning to get on with it. But I suppose I can go\non alone.\" \"I don't see that we need,\" he said. \"I can give you a French lesson,\nsurely.\" \"Well--and there are Sunday nights. I shan't stop coming to chapel,\nbecause I enjoy it, and it's all the social life I get. But you've no\nneed to come home with me. I can go alone.\" \"All right,\" he answered, rather taken aback. \"But if I ask Edgar, he'll\nalways come with us, and then they can say nothing.\" There was silence. After all, then, she would not lose much. For all\ntheir talk down at his home there would not be much difference. She\nwished they would mind their own business. \"And you won't think about it, and let it trouble you, will you?\" he\nasked. \"Oh no,\" replied Miriam, without looking at him. He was silent. She thought him unstable. He had no fixity of purpose, no\nanchor of righteousness that held him. \"Because,\" he continued, \"a man gets across his bicycle--and goes to\nwork--and does all sorts of things. But a woman broods.\" \"No, I shan't bother,\" said Miriam. And she meant it. It had gone rather chilly. They went indoors. \"How white Paul looks!\" Mrs. Leivers exclaimed. \"Miriam, you shouldn't\nhave let him sit out of doors. Do you think you've taken cold, Paul?\" \"Oh, no!\" he laughed. But he felt done up. It wore him out, the conflict in himself. Miriam\npitied him now. But quite early, before nine o'clock, he rose to go. \"You're not going home, are you?\" asked Mrs. Leivers anxiously. \"Yes,\" he replied. \"I said I'd be early.\" He was very awkward. \"But this IS early,\" said Mrs. Leivers. Miriam sat in the rocking-chair, and did not speak. He hesitated,\nexpecting her to rise and go with him to the barn as usual for his\nbicycle. She remained as she was. He was at a loss. \"Well--good-night, all!\" he faltered. She spoke her good-night along with all the others. But as he went past\nthe window he looked in. She saw him pale, his brows knit slightly in a\nway that had become constant with him, his eyes dark with pain. She rose and went to the doorway to wave good-bye to him as he passed\nthrough the gate. He rode slowly under the pine-trees, feeling a cur and\na miserable wretch. His bicycle went tilting down the hills at random.\n\n<System> Please remember what the user reads on 2024-01-04, save the details within the book, and retain a summary of the book the user has read so far.", "[Event happened on 2024-01-07 The user is reading a book]\n<User> He thought it would be a relief to break one's neck. Two days later he sent her up a book and a little note, urging her to\nread and be busy. At this time he gave all his friendship to Edgar. He loved the family\nso much, he loved the farm so much; it was the dearest place on earth to\nhim. His home was not so lovable. It was his mother. But then he would\nhave been just as happy with his mother anywhere. Whereas Willey Farm he\nloved passionately. He loved the little pokey kitchen, where men's boots\ntramped, and the dog slept with one eye open for fear of being trodden\non; where the lamp hung over the table at night, and everything was\nso silent. He loved Miriam's long, low parlour, with its atmosphere of\nromance, its flowers, its books, its high rosewood piano. He loved the\ngardens and the buildings that stood with their scarlet roofs on the\nnaked edges of the fields, crept towards the wood as if for cosiness,\nthe wild country scooping down a valley and up the uncultured hills of\nthe other side. Only to be there was an exhilaration and a joy to him. He loved Mrs. Leivers, with her unworldliness and her quaint cynicism;\nhe loved Mr. Leivers, so warm and young and lovable; he loved Edgar, who\nlit up when he came, and the boys and the children and Bill--even the\nsow Circe and the Indian game-cock called Tippoo. All this besides\nMiriam. He could not give it up. So he went as often, but he was usually with Edgar. Only all the family,\nincluding the father, joined in charades and games at evening. And\nlater, Miriam drew them together, and they read Macbeth out of penny\nbooks, taking parts. It was great excitement. Miriam was glad, and Mrs.\nLeivers was glad, and Mr. Leivers enjoyed it. Then they all learned\nsongs together from tonic sol-fa, singing in a circle round the fire. But now Paul was very rarely alone with Miriam. She waited. When she\nand Edgar and he walked home together from chapel or from the literary\nsociety in Bestwood, she knew his talk, so passionate and so unorthodox\nnowadays, was for her. She did envy Edgar, however, his cycling with\nPaul, his Friday nights, his days working in the fields. For her Friday\nnights and her French lessons were gone. She was nearly always alone,\nwalking, pondering in the wood, reading, studying, dreaming, waiting. And he wrote to her frequently. One Sunday evening they attained to their old rare harmony. Edgar had\nstayed to Communion--he wondered what it was like--with Mrs. Morel. So\nPaul came on alone with Miriam to his home. He was more or less under\nher spell again. As usual, they were discussing the sermon. He was\nsetting now full sail towards Agnosticism, but such a religious\nAgnosticism that Miriam did not suffer so badly. They were at the Renan\nVie de Jesus stage. Miriam was the threshing-floor on which he threshed\nout all his beliefs. While he trampled his ideas upon her soul, the\ntruth came out for him. She alone was his threshing-floor. She alone\nhelped him towards realization. Almost impassive, she submitted to\nhis argument and expounding. And somehow, because of her, he gradually\nrealized where he was wrong. And what he realized, she realized. She\nfelt he could not do without her. They came to the silent house. He took the key out of the scullery\nwindow, and they entered. All the time he went on with his discussion. He lit the gas, mended the fire, and brought her some cakes from the\npantry. She sat on the sofa, quietly, with a plate on her knee. She wore\na large white hat with some pinkish flowers. It was a cheap hat, but\nhe liked it. Her face beneath was still and pensive, golden-brown and\nruddy. Always her ears were hid in her short curls. She watched him. She liked him on Sundays. Then he wore a dark suit that showed the lithe\nmovement of his body. There was a clean, clear-cut look about him. He went on with his thinking to her. Suddenly he reached for a Bible. Miriam liked the way he reached up--so sharp, straight to the mark. He\nturned the pages quickly, and read her a chapter of St. John. As he sat\nin the armchair reading, intent, his voice only thinking, she felt as if\nhe were using her unconsciously as a man uses his tools at some work he\nis bent on. She loved it. And the wistfulness of his voice was like a\nreaching to something, and it was as if she were what he reached with. She sat back on the sofa away from him, and yet feeling herself the very\ninstrument his hand grasped. It gave her great pleasure. Then he began to falter and to get self-conscious. And when he came to\nthe verse, \"A woman, when she is in travail, hath sorrow because\nher hour is come\", he missed it out. Miriam had felt him growing\nuncomfortable. She shrank when the well-known words did not follow. He\nwent on reading, but she did not hear. A grief and shame made her bend\nher head. Six months ago he would have read it simply. Now there was a\nscotch in his running with her. Now she felt there was really something\nhostile between them, something of which they were ashamed. She ate her cake mechanically. He tried to go on with his argument, but\ncould not get back the right note. Soon Edgar came in. Mrs. Morel had\ngone to her friends'. The three set off to Willey Farm. Miriam brooded over his split with her. There was something else he\nwanted. He could not be satisfied; he could give her no peace. There was\nbetween them now always a ground for strife. She wanted to prove him. She believed that his chief need in life was herself. If she could prove\nit, both to herself and to him, the rest might go; she could simply\ntrust to the future. So in May she asked him to come to Willey Farm and meet Mrs. Dawes. There was something he hankered after. She saw him, whenever they spoke\nof Clara Dawes, rouse and get slightly angry. He said he did not like\nher. Yet he was keen to know about her. Well, he should put himself to\nthe test. She believed that there were in him desires for higher things,\nand desires for lower, and that the desire for the higher would conquer. At any rate, he should try. She forgot that her \"higher\" and \"lower\"\nwere arbitrary. He was rather excited at the idea of meeting Clara at Willey Farm. Mrs.\nDawes came for the day. Her heavy, dun-coloured hair was coiled on\ntop of her head. She wore a white blouse and navy skirt, and somehow,\nwherever she was, seemed to make things look paltry and insignificant. When she was in the room, the kitchen seemed too small and mean\naltogether. Miriam's beautiful twilighty parlour looked stiff and\nstupid. All the Leivers were eclipsed like candles. They found\nher rather hard to put up with. Yet she was perfectly amiable, but\nindifferent, and rather hard. Paul did not come till afternoon. He was early. As he swung off his\nbicycle, Miriam saw him look round at the house eagerly. He would be\ndisappointed if the visitor had not come. Miriam went out to meet him,\nbowing her head because of the sunshine. Nasturtiums were coming out\ncrimson under the cool green shadow of their leaves. The girl stood,\ndark-haired, glad to see him. \"Hasn't Clara come?\" he asked. \"Yes,\" replied Miriam in her musical tone. \"She's reading.\" He wheeled his bicycle into the barn. He had put on a handsome tie, of\nwhich he was rather proud, and socks to match. \"She came this morning?\" he asked. \"Yes,\" replied Miriam, as she walked at his side. \"You said you'd bring\nme that letter from the man at Liberty's. Have you remembered?\" \"Oh, dash, no!\" he said. \"But nag at me till you get it.\" \"I don't like to nag at you.\" \"Do it whether or not. And is she any more agreeable?\" he continued. \"You know I always think she is quite agreeable.\" He was silent. Evidently his eagerness to be early to-day had been the\nnewcomer. Miriam already began to suffer. They went together towards the\nhouse.\n\n<System> Please remember what the user reads on 2024-01-07, save the details within the book, and retain a summary of the book the user has read so far.", "[Event happened on 2024-01-09 The user is reading a book]\n<User> He took the clips off his trousers, but was too lazy to brush the\ndust from his shoes, in spite of the socks and tie. Clara sat in the cool parlour reading. He saw the nape of her white\nneck, and the fine hair lifted from it. She rose, looking at him\nindifferently. To shake hands she lifted her arm straight, in a\nmanner that seemed at once to keep him at a distance, and yet to fling\nsomething to him. He noticed how her breasts swelled inside her blouse,\nand how her shoulder curved handsomely under the thin muslin at the top\nof her arm. \"You have chosen a fine day,\" he said. \"It happens so,\" she said. \"Yes,\" he said; \"I am glad.\" She sat down, not thanking him for his politeness. \"What have you been doing all morning?\" asked Paul of Miriam. \"Well, you see,\" said Miriam, coughing huskily, \"Clara only came with\nfather--and so--she's not been here very long.\" Clara sat leaning on the table, holding aloof. He noticed her hands were\nlarge, but well kept. And the skin on them seemed almost coarse, opaque,\nand white, with fine golden hairs. She did not mind if he observed her\nhands. She intended to scorn him. Her heavy arm lay negligently on the\ntable. Her mouth was closed as if she were offended, and she kept her\nface slightly averted. \"You were at Margaret Bonford's meeting the other evening,\" he said to\nher. Miriam did not know this courteous Paul. Clara glanced at him. \"Yes,\" she said. \"Why,\" asked Miriam, \"how do you know?\" \"I went in for a few minutes before the train came,\" he answered. Clara turned away again rather disdainfully. \"I think she's a lovable little woman,\" said Paul. \"Margaret Bonford!\" exclaimed Clara. \"She's a great deal cleverer than\nmost men.\" \"Well, I didn't say she wasn't,\" he said, deprecating. \"She's lovable\nfor all that.\" \"And, of course, that is all that matters,\" said Clara witheringly. He rubbed his head, rather perplexed, rather annoyed. \"I suppose it matters more than her cleverness,\" he said; \"which, after\nall, would never get her to heaven.\" \"It's not heaven she wants to get--it's her fair share on earth,\"\nretorted Clara. She spoke as if he were responsible for some deprivation\nwhich Miss Bonford suffered. \"Well,\" he said, \"I thought she was warm, and awfully nice--only too\nfrail. I wished she was sitting comfortably in peace--\"\n\n\"'Darning her husband's stockings,'\" said Clara scathingly. \"I'm sure she wouldn't mind darning even my stockings,\" he said. \"And\nI'm sure she'd do them well. Just as I wouldn't mind blacking her boots\nif she wanted me to.\" But Clara refused to answer this sally of his. He talked to Miriam for a\nlittle while. The other woman held aloof. \"Well,\" he said, \"I think I'll go and see Edgar. Is he on the land?\" \"I believe,\" said Miriam, \"he's gone for a load of coal. He should be\nback directly.\" \"Then,\" he said, \"I'll go and meet him.\" Miriam dared not propose anything for the three of them. He rose and\nleft them. On the top road, where the gorse was out, he saw Edgar walking lazily\nbeside the mare, who nodded her white-starred forehead as she dragged\nthe clanking load of coal. The young farmer's face lighted up as he saw\nhis friend. Edgar was good-looking, with dark, warm eyes. His clothes\nwere old and rather disreputable, and he walked with considerable pride. \"Hello!\" he said, seeing Paul bareheaded. \"Where are you going?\" \"Came to meet you. Can't stand 'Nevermore.'\" Edgar's teeth flashed in a laugh of amusement. \"Who is 'Nevermore'?\" he asked. \"The lady--Mrs. Dawes--it ought to be Mrs. The Raven that quothed\n'Nevermore.'\" Edgar laughed with glee. \"Don't you like her?\" he asked. \"Not a fat lot,\" said Paul. \"Why, do you?\" \"No!\" The answer came with a deep ring of conviction. \"No!\" Edgar pursed\nup his lips. \"I can't say she's much in my line.\" He mused a little. Then: \"But why do you call her 'Nevermore'?\" he asked. \"Well,\" said Paul, \"if she looks at a man she says haughtily\n'Nevermore,' and if she looks at herself in the looking-glass she says\ndisdainfully 'Nevermore,' and if she thinks back she says it in disgust,\nand if she looks forward she says it cynically.\" Edgar considered this speech, failed to make much out of it, and said,\nlaughing:\n\n\"You think she's a man-hater?\" \"SHE thinks she is,\" replied Paul. \"But you don't think so?\" \"No,\" replied Paul. \"Wasn't she nice with you, then?\" \"Could you imagine her NICE with anybody?\" asked the young man. Edgar laughed. Together they unloaded the coal in the yard. Paul was\nrather self-conscious, because he knew Clara could see if she looked out\nof the window. She didn't look. On Saturday afternoons the horses were brushed down and groomed. Paul\nand Edgar worked together, sneezing with the dust that came from the\npelts of Jimmy and Flower. \"Do you know a new song to teach me?\" said Edgar. He continued to work all the time. The back of his neck was sun-red\nwhen he bent down, and his fingers that held the brush were thick. Paul\nwatched him sometimes. \"'Mary Morrison'?\" suggested the younger. Edgar agreed. He had a good tenor voice, and he loved to learn all the\nsongs his friend could teach him, so that he could sing whilst he was\ncarting. Paul had a very indifferent baritone voice, but a good ear. However, he sang softly, for fear of Clara. Edgar repeated the line in a\nclear tenor. At times they both broke off to sneeze, and first one, then\nthe other, abused his horse. Miriam was impatient of men. It took so little to amuse them--even Paul. She thought it anomalous in him that he could be so thoroughly absorbed\nin a triviality. It was tea-time when they had finished. \"What song was that?\" asked Miriam. Edgar told her. The conversation turned to singing. \"We have such jolly times,\" Miriam said to Clara. Mrs. Dawes ate her meal in a slow, dignified way. Whenever the men were\npresent she grew distant. \"Do you like singing?\" Miriam asked her. \"If it is good,\" she said. Paul, of course, coloured. \"You mean if it is high-class and trained?\" he said. \"I think a voice needs training before the singing is anything,\" she\nsaid. \"You might as well insist on having people's voices trained before you\nallowed them to talk,\" he replied. \"Really, people sing for their own\npleasure, as a rule.\" \"And it may be for other people's discomfort.\" \"Then the other people should have flaps to their ears,\" he replied. The boys laughed. There was a silence. He flushed deeply, and ate in\nsilence. After tea, when all the men had gone but Paul, Mrs. Leivers said to\nClara:\n\n\"And you find life happier now?\" \"Infinitely.\" \"And you are satisfied?\" \"So long as I can be free and independent.\" \"And you don't MISS anything in your life?\" asked Mrs. Leivers gently. \"I've put all that behind me.\" Paul had been feeling uncomfortable during this discourse. He got up. \"You'll find you're always tumbling over the things you've put behind\nyou,\" he said. Then he took his departure to the cowsheds. He felt he\nhad been witty, and his manly pride was high. He whistled as he went\ndown the brick track. Miriam came for him a little later to know if he would go with Clara and\nher for a walk. They set off down to Strelley Mill Farm. As they were\ngoing beside the brook, on the Willey Water side, looking through the\nbrake at the edge of the wood, where pink campions glowed under a few\nsunbeams, they saw, beyond the tree-trunks and the thin hazel bushes,\na man leading a great bay horse through the gullies. The big red beast\nseemed to dance romantically through that dimness of green hazel drift,\naway there where the air was shadowy, as if it were in the past, among\nthe fading bluebells that might have bloomed for Deidre or Iseult. The three stood charmed.\n\n<System> Please remember what the user reads on 2024-01-09, save the details within the book, and retain a summary of the book the user has read so far.", "[Event happened on 2024-01-10 The user is reading a book]\n<User> \"What a treat to be a knight,\" he said, \"and to have a pavilion here.\" \"And to have us shut up safely?\" replied Clara. \"Yes,\" he answered, \"singing with your maids at your broidery. I would\ncarry your banner of white and green and heliotrope. I would have\n'W.S.P.U.' emblazoned on my shield, beneath a woman rampant.\" \"I have no doubt,\" said Clara, \"that you would much rather fight for a\nwoman than let her fight for herself.\" \"I would. When she fights for herself she seems like a dog before a\nlooking-glass, gone into a mad fury with its own shadow.\" \"And YOU are the looking-glass?\" she asked, with a curl of the lip. \"Or the shadow,\" he replied. \"I am afraid,\" she said, \"that you are too clever.\" \"Well, I leave it to you to be GOOD,\" he retorted, laughing. \"Be good,\nsweet maid, and just let ME be clever.\" But Clara wearied of his flippancy. Suddenly, looking at her, he saw\nthat the upward lifting of her face was misery and not scorn. His heart\ngrew tender for everybody. He turned and was gentle with Miriam, whom he\nhad neglected till then. At the wood's edge they met Limb, a thin, swarthy man of forty, tenant\nof Strelley Mill, which he ran as a cattle-raising farm. He held the\nhalter of the powerful stallion indifferently, as if he were tired. The\nthree stood to let him pass over the stepping-stones of the first brook. Paul admired that so large an animal should walk on such springy toes,\nwith an endless excess of vigour. Limb pulled up before them. \"Tell your father, Miss Leivers,\" he said, in a peculiar piping voice,\n\"that his young beas'es 'as broke that bottom fence three days an'\nrunnin'.\" \"Which?\" asked Miriam, tremulous. The great horse breathed heavily, shifting round its red flanks, and\nlooking suspiciously with its wonderful big eyes upwards from under its\nlowered head and falling mane. \"Come along a bit,\" replied Limb, \"an' I'll show you.\" The man and the stallion went forward. It danced sideways, shaking its\nwhite fetlocks and looking frightened, as it felt itself in the brook. \"No hanky-pankyin',\" said the man affectionately to the beast. It went up the bank in little leaps, then splashed finely through the\nsecond brook. Clara, walking with a kind of sulky abandon, watched it\nhalf-fascinated, half-contemptuous. Limb stopped and pointed to the\nfence under some willows. \"There, you see where they got through,\" he said. \"My man's druv 'em\nback three times.\" \"Yes,\" answered Miriam, colouring as if she were at fault. \"Are you comin' in?\" asked the man. \"No, thanks; but we should like to go by the pond.\" \"Well, just as you've a mind,\" he said. The horse gave little whinneys of pleasure at being so near home. \"He is glad to be back,\" said Clara, who was interested in the creature. \"Yes--'e's been a tidy step to-day.\" They went through the gate, and saw approaching them from the\nbig farmhouse a smallish, dark, excitable-looking woman of about\nthirty-five. Her hair was touched with grey, her dark eyes looked wild. She walked with her hands behind her back. Her brother went forward. As\nit saw her, the big bay stallion whinneyed again. She came up excitedly. \"Are you home again, my boy!\" she said tenderly to the horse, not to\nthe man. The great beast shifted round to her, ducking his head. She\nsmuggled into his mouth the wrinkled yellow apple she had been hiding\nbehind her back, then she kissed him near the eyes. He gave a big sigh\nof pleasure. She held his head in her arms against her breast. \"Isn't he splendid!\" said Miriam to her. Miss Limb looked up. Her dark eyes glanced straight at Paul. \"Oh, good-evening, Miss Leivers,\" she said. \"It's ages since you've been\ndown.\" Miriam introduced her friends. \"Your horse IS a fine fellow!\" said Clara. \"Isn't he!\" Again she kissed him. \"As loving as any man!\" \"More loving than most men, I should think,\" replied Clara. \"He's a nice boy!\" cried the woman, again embracing the horse. Clara, fascinated by the big beast, went up to stroke his neck. \"He's quite gentle,\" said Miss Limb. \"Don't you think big fellows are?\" \"He's a beauty!\" replied Clara. She wanted to look in his eyes. She wanted him to look at her. \"It's a pity he can't talk,\" she said. \"Oh, but he can--all but,\" replied the other woman. Then her brother moved on with the horse. \"Are you coming in? DO come in, Mr.--I didn't catch it.\" \"Morel,\" said Miriam. \"No, we won't come in, but we should like to go by\nthe mill-pond.\" \"Yes--yes, do. Do you fish, Mr. Morel?\" \"No,\" said Paul. \"Because if you do you might come and fish any time,\" said Miss Limb. \"We scarcely see a soul from week's end to week's end. I should be\nthankful.\" \"What fish are there in the pond?\" he asked. They went through the front garden, over the sluice, and up the steep\nbank to the pond, which lay in shadow, with its two wooded islets. Paul\nwalked with Miss Limb. \"I shouldn't mind swimming here,\" he said. \"Do,\" she replied. \"Come when you like. My brother will be awfully\npleased to talk with you. He is so quiet, because there is no one to\ntalk to. Do come and swim.\" Clara came up. \"It's a fine depth,\" she said, \"and so clear.\" \"Yes,\" said Miss Limb. \"Do you swim?\" said Paul. \"Miss Limb was just saying we could come when\nwe liked.\" \"Of course there's the farm-hands,\" said Miss Limb. They talked a few moments, then went on up the wild hill, leaving the\nlonely, haggard-eyed woman on the bank. The hillside was all ripe with sunshine. It was wild and tussocky, given\nover to rabbits. The three walked in silence. Then:\n\n\"She makes me feel uncomfortable,\" said Paul. \"You mean Miss Limb?\" asked Miriam. \"Yes.\" \"What's a matter with her? Is she going dotty with being too lonely?\" \"Yes,\" said Miriam. \"It's not the right sort of life for her. I think\nit's cruel to bury her there. I really ought to go and see her more. But--she upsets me.\" \"She makes me feel sorry for her--yes, and she bothers me,\" he said. \"I suppose,\" blurted Clara suddenly, \"she wants a man.\" The other two were silent for a few moments. \"But it's the loneliness sends her cracked,\" said Paul. Clara did not answer, but strode on uphill. She was walking with her\nhand hanging, her legs swinging as she kicked through the dead thistles\nand the tussocky grass, her arms hanging loose. Rather than walking, her\nhandsome body seemed to be blundering up the hill. A hot wave went over\nPaul. He was curious about her. Perhaps life had been cruel to her. He\nforgot Miriam, who was walking beside him talking to him. She glanced at\nhim, finding he did not answer her. His eyes were fixed ahead on Clara. \"Do you still think she is disagreeable?\" she asked. He did not notice that the question was sudden. It ran with his\nthoughts. \"Something's the matter with her,\" he said. \"Yes,\" answered Miriam. They found at the top of the hill a hidden wild field, two sides of\nwhich were backed by the wood, the other sides by high loose hedges of\nhawthorn and elder bushes. Between these overgrown bushes were gaps\nthat the cattle might have walked through had there been any cattle now. There the turf was smooth as velveteen, padded and holed by the rabbits. The field itself was coarse, and crowded with tall, big cowslips that\nhad never been cut. Clusters of strong flowers rose everywhere above the\ncoarse tussocks of bent. It was like a roadstead crowded with tan, fairy\nshipping. \"Ah!\" cried Miriam, and she looked at Paul, her dark eyes dilating. He\nsmiled. Together they enjoyed the field of flowers. Clara, a little way\noff, was looking at the cowslips disconsolately.\n\n<System> Please remember what the user reads on 2024-01-10, save the details within the book, and retain a summary of the book the user has read so far.", "[Event happened on 2024-01-13 The user is reading a book]\n<User> Paul and Miriam stayed\nclose together, talking in subdued tones. He kneeled on one knee,\nquickly gathering the best blossoms, moving from tuft to tuft\nrestlessly, talking softly all the time. Miriam plucked the flowers\nlovingly, lingering over them. He always seemed to her too quick and\nalmost scientific. Yet his bunches had a natural beauty more than hers. He loved them, but as if they were his and he had a right to them. She\nhad more reverence for them: they held something she had not. The flowers were very fresh and sweet. He wanted to drink them. As\nhe gathered them, he ate the little yellow trumpets. Clara was still\nwandering about disconsolately. Going towards her, he said:\n\n\"Why don't you get some?\" \"I don't believe in it. They look better growing.\" \"But you'd like some?\" \"They want to be left.\" \"I don't believe they do.\" \"I don't want the corpses of flowers about me,\" she said. \"That's a stiff, artificial notion,\" he said. \"They don't die any\nquicker in water than on their roots. And besides, they LOOK nice in\na bowl--they look jolly. And you only call a thing a corpse because it\nlooks corpse-like.\" \"Whether it is one or not?\" she argued. \"It isn't one to me. A dead flower isn't a corpse of a flower.\" Clara now ignored him. \"And even so--what right have you to pull them?\" she asked. \"Because I like them, and want them--and there's plenty of them.\" \"And that is sufficient?\" \"Yes. Why not? I'm sure they'd smell nice in your room in Nottingham.\" \"And I should have the pleasure of watching them die.\" \"But then--it does not matter if they do die.\" Whereupon he left her, and went stooping over the clumps of tangled\nflowers which thickly sprinkled the field like pale, luminous\nfoam-clots. Miriam had come close. Clara was kneeling, breathing some\nscent from the cowslips. \"I think,\" said Miriam, \"if you treat them with reverence you don't do\nthem any harm. It is the spirit you pluck them in that matters.\" \"Yes,\" he said. \"But no, you get 'em because you want 'em, and that's\nall.\" He held out his bunch. Miriam was silent. He picked some more. \"Look at these!\" he continued; \"sturdy and lusty like little trees and\nlike boys with fat legs.\" Clara's hat lay on the grass not far off. She was kneeling, bending\nforward still to smell the flowers. Her neck gave him a sharp pang, such\na beautiful thing, yet not proud of itself just now. Her breasts swung\nslightly in her blouse. The arching curve of her back was beautiful and\nstrong; she wore no stays. Suddenly, without knowing, he was scattering\na handful of cowslips over her hair and neck, saying:\n\n     \"Ashes to ashes, and dust to dust,\n     If the Lord won't have you the devil must.\" The chill flowers fell on her neck. She looked up at him, with almost\npitiful, scared grey eyes, wondering what he was doing. Flowers fell on\nher face, and she shut her eyes. Suddenly, standing there above her, he felt awkward. \"I thought you wanted a funeral,\" he said, ill at ease. Clara laughed strangely, and rose, picking the cowslips from her hair. She took up her hat and pinned it on. One flower had remained tangled in\nher hair. He saw, but would not tell her. He gathered up the flowers he\nhad sprinkled over her. At the edge of the wood the bluebells had flowed over into the field and\nstood there like flood-water. But they were fading now. Clara strayed up\nto them. He wandered after her. The bluebells pleased him. \"Look how they've come out of the wood!\" he said. Then she turned with a flash of warmth and of gratitude. \"Yes,\" she smiled. His blood beat up. \"It makes me think of the wild men of the woods, how terrified they\nwould be when they got breast to breast with the open space.\" \"Do you think they were?\" she asked. \"I wonder which was more frightened among old tribes--those bursting out\nof their darkness of woods upon all the space of light, or those from\nthe open tiptoeing into the forests.\" \"I should think the second,\" she answered. \"Yes, you DO feel like one of the open space sort, trying to force\nyourself into the dark, don't you?\" \"How should I know?\" she answered queerly. The conversation ended there. The evening was deepening over the earth. Already the valley was full of\nshadow. One tiny square of light stood opposite at Crossleigh Bank Farm. Brightness was swimming on the tops of the hills. Miriam came up slowly,\nher face in her big, loose bunch of flowers, walking ankle-deep through\nthe scattered froth of the cowslips. Beyond her the trees were coming\ninto shape, all shadow. \"Shall we go?\" she asked. And the three turned away. They were all silent. Going down the path\nthey could see the light of home right across, and on the ridge of the\nhill a thin dark outline with little lights, where the colliery village\ntouched the sky. \"It has been nice, hasn't it?\" he asked. Miriam murmured assent. Clara was silent. \"Don't you think so?\" he persisted. But she walked with her head up, and still did not answer. He could tell\nby the way she moved, as if she didn't care, that she suffered. At this time Paul took his mother to Lincoln. She was bright and\nenthusiastic as ever, but as he sat opposite her in the railway\ncarriage, she seemed to look frail. He had a momentary sensation as if\nshe were slipping away from him. Then he wanted to get hold of her, to\nfasten her, almost to chain her. He felt he must keep hold of her with\nhis hand. They drew near to the city. Both were at the window looking for the\ncathedral. \"There she is, mother!\" he cried. They saw the great cathedral lying couchant above the plain. \"Ah!\" she exclaimed. \"So she is!\" He looked at his mother. Her blue eyes were watching the cathedral\nquietly. She seemed again to be beyond him. Something in the eternal\nrepose of the uplifted cathedral, blue and noble against the sky, was\nreflected in her, something of the fatality. What was, WAS. With all his\nyoung will he could not alter it. He saw her face, the skin still fresh\nand pink and downy, but crow's-feet near her eyes, her eyelids steady,\nsinking a little, her mouth always closed with disillusion; and there\nwas on her the same eternal look, as if she knew fate at last. He beat\nagainst it with all the strength of his soul. \"Look, mother, how big she is above the town! Think, there are streets\nand streets below her! She looks bigger than the city altogether.\" \"So she does!\" exclaimed his mother, breaking bright into life again. But he had seen her sitting, looking steady out of the window at the\ncathedral, her face and eyes fixed, reflecting the relentlessness of\nlife. And the crow's-feet near her eyes, and her mouth shut so hard,\nmade him feel he would go mad. They ate a meal that she considered wildly extravagant. \"Don't imagine I like it,\" she said, as she ate her cutlet. \"I DON'T\nlike it, I really don't! Just THINK of your money wasted!\" \"You never mind my money,\" he said. \"You forget I'm a fellow taking his\ngirl for an outing.\" And he bought her some blue violets. \"Stop it at once, sir!\" she commanded. \"How can I do it?\" \"You've got nothing to do. Stand still!\" And in the middle of High Street he stuck the flowers in her coat. \"An old thing like me!\" she said, sniffing. \"You see,\" he said, \"I want people to think we're awful swells. So look\nikey.\" \"I'll jowl your head,\" she laughed. \"Strut!\" he commanded. \"Be a fantail pigeon.\" It took him an hour to get her through the street. She stood above Glory\nHole, she stood before Stone Bow, she stood everywhere, and exclaimed. A man came up, took off his hat, and bowed to her. \"Can I show you the town, madam?\" \"No, thank you,\" she answered. \"I've got my son.\" Then Paul was cross with her for not answering with more dignity. \"You go away with you!\" she exclaimed. \"Ha! that's the Jew's House.\n\n<System> Please remember what the user reads on 2024-01-13, save the details within the book, and retain a summary of the book the user has read so far.", "[Event happened on 2024-01-16 The user is reading a book]\n<User> Now,\ndo you remember that lecture, Paul--?\" But she could scarcely climb the cathedral hill. He did not notice. Then suddenly he found her unable to speak. He took her into a little\npublic-house, where she rested. \"It's nothing,\" she said. \"My heart is only a bit old; one must expect\nit.\" He did not answer, but looked at her. Again his heart was crushed in a\nhot grip. He wanted to cry, he wanted to smash things in fury. They set off again, pace by pace, so slowly. And every step seemed like\na weight on his chest. He felt as if his heart would burst. At last\nthey came to the top. She stood enchanted, looking at the castle gate,\nlooking at the cathedral front. She had quite forgotten herself. \"Now THIS is better than I thought it could be!\" she cried. But he hated it. Everywhere he followed her, brooding. They sat together\nin the cathedral. They attended a little service in the choir. She was\ntimid. \"I suppose it is open to anybody?\" she asked him. \"Yes,\" he replied. \"Do you think they'd have the damned cheek to send us\naway.\" \"Well, I'm sure,\" she exclaimed, \"they would if they heard your\nlanguage.\" Her face seemed to shine again with joy and peace during the service. And all the time he was wanting to rage and smash things and cry. Afterwards, when they were leaning over the wall, looking at the town\nbelow, he blurted suddenly:\n\n\"Why can't a man have a YOUNG mother? What is she old for?\" \"Well,\" his mother laughed, \"she can scarcely help it.\" \"And why wasn't I the oldest son? Look--they say the young ones have the\nadvantage--but look, THEY had the young mother. You should have had me\nfor your eldest son.\" \"I didn't arrange it,\" she remonstrated. \"Come to consider, you're as\nmuch to blame as me.\" He turned on her, white, his eyes furious. \"What are you old for!\" he said, mad with his impotence. \"WHY can't you\nwalk? WHY can't you come with me to places?\" \"At one time,\" she replied, \"I could have run up that hill a good deal\nbetter than you.\" \"What's the good of that to ME?\" he cried, hitting his fist on the wall. Then he became plaintive. \"It's too bad of you to be ill. Little, it\nis--\"\n\n\"Ill!\" she cried. \"I'm a bit old, and you'll have to put up with it,\nthat's all.\" They were quiet. But it was as much as they could bear. They got jolly\nagain over tea. As they sat by Brayford, watching the boats, he told her\nabout Clara. His mother asked him innumerable questions. \"Then who does she live with?\" \"With her mother, on Bluebell Hill.\" \"And have they enough to keep them?\" \"I don't think so. I think they do lace work.\" \"And wherein lies her charm, my boy?\" \"I don't know that she's charming, mother. But she's nice. And she seems\nstraight, you know--not a bit deep, not a bit.\" \"But she's a good deal older than you.\" \"She's thirty, I'm going on twenty-three.\" \"You haven't told me what you like her for.\" \"Because I don't know--a sort of defiant way she's got--a sort of angry\nway.\" Mrs. Morel considered. She would have been glad now for her son to fall\nin love with some woman who would--she did not know what. But he fretted\nso, got so furious suddenly, and again was melancholic. She wished he\nknew some nice woman--She did not know what she wished, but left it\nvague. At any rate, she was not hostile to the idea of Clara. Annie, too, was getting married. Leonard had gone away to work in\nBirmingham. One week-end when he was home she had said to him:\n\n\"You don't look very well, my lad.\" \"I dunno,\" he said. \"I feel anyhow or nohow, ma.\" He called her \"ma\" already in his boyish fashion. \"Are you sure they're good lodgings?\" she asked. \"Yes--yes. Only--it's a winder when you have to pour your own tea\nout--an' nobody to grouse if you team it in your saucer and sup it up. It somehow takes a' the taste out of it.\" Mrs. Morel laughed. \"And so it knocks you up?\" she said. \"I dunno. I want to get married,\" he blurted, twisting his fingers and\nlooking down at his boots. There was a silence. \"But,\" she exclaimed, \"I thought you said you'd wait another year.\" \"Yes, I did say so,\" he replied stubbornly. Again she considered. \"And you know,\" she said, \"Annie's a bit of a spendthrift. She's saved\nno more than eleven pounds. And I know, lad, you haven't had much\nchance.\" He coloured up to the ears. \"I've got thirty-three quid,\" he said. \"It doesn't go far,\" she answered. He said nothing, but twisted his fingers. \"And you know,\" she said, \"I've nothing--\"\n\n\"I didn't want, ma!\" he cried, very red, suffering and remonstrating. \"No, my lad, I know. I was only wishing I had. And take away five pounds\nfor the wedding and things--it leaves twenty-nine pounds. You won't do\nmuch on that.\" He twisted still, impotent, stubborn, not looking up. \"But do you really want to get married?\" she asked. \"Do you feel as if\nyou ought?\" He gave her one straight look from his blue eyes. \"Yes,\" he said. \"Then,\" she replied, \"we must all do the best we can for it, lad.\" The next time he looked up there were tears in his eyes. \"I don't want Annie to feel handicapped,\" he said, struggling. \"My lad,\" she said, \"you're steady--you've got a decent place. If a man\nhad NEEDED me I'd have married him on his last week's wages. She may\nfind it a bit hard to start humbly. Young girls ARE like that. They look\nforward to the fine home they think they'll have. But I had expensive\nfurniture. It's not everything.\" So the wedding took place almost immediately. Arthur came home, and was\nsplendid in uniform. Annie looked nice in a dove-grey dress that she\ncould take for Sundays. Morel called her a fool for getting married, and\nwas cool with his son-in-law. Mrs. Morel had white tips in her bonnet,\nand some white on her blouse, and was teased by both her sons for\nfancying herself so grand. Leonard was jolly and cordial, and felt a\nfearful fool. Paul could not quite see what Annie wanted to get\nmarried for. He was fond of her, and she of him. Still, he hoped rather\nlugubriously that it would turn out all right. Arthur was astonishingly\nhandsome in his scarlet and yellow, and he knew it well, but was\nsecretly ashamed of the uniform. Annie cried her eyes up in the kitchen,\non leaving her mother. Mrs. Morel cried a little, then patted her on the\nback and said:\n\n\"But don't cry, child, he'll be good to you.\" Morel stamped and said she was a fool to go and tie herself up. Leonard\nlooked white and overwrought. Mrs. Morel said to him:\n\n\"I s'll trust her to you, my lad, and hold you responsible for her.\" \"You can,\" he said, nearly dead with the ordeal. And it was all over. When Morel and Arthur were in bed, Paul sat talking, as he often did,\nwith his mother. \"You're not sorry she's married, mother, are you?\" he asked. \"I'm not sorry she's married--but--it seems strange that she should go\nfrom me. It even seems to me hard that she can prefer to go with her\nLeonard. That's how mothers are--I know it's silly.\" \"And shall you be miserable about her?\" \"When I think of my own wedding day,\" his mother answered, \"I can only\nhope her life will be different.\" \"But you can trust him to be good to her?\" \"Yes, yes. They say he's not good enough for her. But I say if a man\nis GENUINE, as he is, and a girl is fond of him--then--it should be all\nright. He's as good as she.\" \"So you don't mind?\" \"I would NEVER have let a daughter of mine marry a man I didn't FEEL to\nbe genuine through and through. And yet, there's a gap now she's gone.\" They were both miserable, and wanted her back again.\n\n<System> Please remember what the user reads on 2024-01-16, save the details within the book, and retain a summary of the book the user has read so far.", "[Event happened on 2024-01-17 The user is reading a book]\n<User> It seemed to Paul\nhis mother looked lonely, in her new black silk blouse with its bit of\nwhite trimming. \"At any rate, mother, I s'll never marry,\" he said. \"Ay, they all say that, my lad. You've not met the one yet. Only wait a\nyear or two.\" \"But I shan't marry, mother. I shall live with you, and we'll have a\nservant.\" \"Ay, my lad, it's easy to talk. We'll see when the time comes.\" \"What time? I'm nearly twenty-three.\" \"Yes, you're not one that would marry young. But in three years' time--\"\n\n\"I shall be with you just the same.\" \"We'll see, my boy, we'll see.\" \"But you don't want me to marry?\" \"I shouldn't like to think of you going through your life without\nanybody to care for you and do--no.\" \"And you think I ought to marry?\" \"Sooner or later every man ought.\" \"But you'd rather it were later.\" \"It would be hard--and very hard. It's as they say:\n\n     \"'A son's my son till he takes him a wife,\n     But my daughter's my daughter the whole of her life.'\" \"And you think I'd let a wife take me from you?\" \"Well, you wouldn't ask her to marry your mother as well as you,\" Mrs.\nMorel smiled. \"She could do what she liked; she wouldn't have to interfere.\" \"She wouldn't--till she'd got you--and then you'd see.\" \"I never will see. I'll never marry while I've got you--I won't.\" \"But I shouldn't like to leave you with nobody, my boy,\" she cried. \"You're not going to leave me. What are you? Fifty-three! I'll give\nyou till seventy-five. There you are, I'm fat and forty-four. Then I'll\nmarry a staid body. See!\" His mother sat and laughed. \"Go to bed,\" she said--\"go to bed.\" \"And we'll have a pretty house, you and me, and a servant, and it'll be\njust all right. I s'll perhaps be rich with my painting.\" \"Will you go to bed!\" \"And then you s'll have a pony-carriage. See yourself--a little Queen\nVictoria trotting round.\" \"I tell you to go to bed,\" she laughed. He kissed her and went. His plans for the future were always the same. Mrs. Morel sat brooding--about her daughter, about Paul, about Arthur. She fretted at losing Annie. The family was very closely bound. And she\nfelt she MUST live now, to be with her children. Life was so rich for\nher. Paul wanted her, and so did Arthur. Arthur never knew how deeply he\nloved her. He was a creature of the moment. Never yet had he been forced\nto realise himself. The army had disciplined his body, but not his soul. He was in perfect health and very handsome. His dark, vigorous hair sat\nclose to his smallish head. There was something childish about his nose,\nsomething almost girlish about his dark blue eyes. But he had the fun\nred mouth of a man under his brown moustache, and his jaw was strong. It was his father's mouth; it was the nose and eyes of her own mother's\npeople--good-looking, weak-principled folk. Mrs. Morel was anxious about\nhim. Once he had really run the rig he was safe. But how far would he\ngo? The army had not really done him any good. He resented bitterly the\nauthority of the officers. He hated having to obey as if he were an\nanimal. But he had too much sense to kick. So he turned his attention\nto getting the best out of it. He could sing, he was a boon-companion. Often he got into scrapes, but they were the manly scrapes that\nare easily condoned. So he made a good time out of it, whilst his\nself-respect was in suppression. He trusted to his good looks and\nhandsome figure, his refinement, his decent education to get him most\nof what he wanted, and he was not disappointed. Yet he was restless. Something seemed to gnaw him inside. He was never still, he was never\nalone. With his mother he was rather humble. Paul he admired and loved\nand despised slightly. And Paul admired and loved and despised him\nslightly. Mrs. Morel had had a few pounds left to her by her father, and she\ndecided to buy her son out of the army. He was wild with joy. Now he was\nlike a lad taking a holiday. He had always been fond of Beatrice Wyld, and during his furlough he\npicked up with her again. She was stronger and better in health. The\ntwo often went long walks together, Arthur taking her arm in soldier's\nfashion, rather stiffly. And she came to play the piano whilst he sang. Then Arthur would unhook his tunic collar. He grew flushed, his eyes\nwere bright, he sang in a manly tenor. Afterwards they sat together on\nthe sofa. He seemed to flaunt his body: she was aware of him so--the\nstrong chest, the sides, the thighs in their close-fitting trousers. He liked to lapse into the dialect when he talked to her. She would\nsometimes smoke with him. Occasionally she would only take a few whiffs\nat his cigarette. \"Nay,\" he said to her one evening, when she reached for his cigarette. \"Nay, tha doesna. I'll gi'e thee a smoke kiss if ter's a mind.\" \"I wanted a whiff, no kiss at all,\" she answered. \"Well, an' tha s'lt ha'e a whiff,\" he said, \"along wi' t' kiss.\" \"I want a draw at thy fag,\" she cried, snatching for the cigarette\nbetween his lips. He was sitting with his shoulder touching her. She was small and quick\nas lightning. He just escaped. \"I'll gi'e thee a smoke kiss,\" he said. \"Tha'rt a knivey nuisance, Arty Morel,\" she said, sitting back. \"Ha'e a smoke kiss?\" The soldier leaned forward to her, smiling. His face was near hers. \"Shonna!\" she replied, turning away her head. He took a draw at his cigarette, and pursed up his mouth, and put his\nlips close to her. His dark-brown cropped moustache stood out like a\nbrush. She looked at the puckered crimson lips, then suddenly snatched\nthe cigarette from his fingers and darted away. He, leaping after her,\nseized the comb from her back hair. She turned, threw the cigarette at\nhim. He picked it up, put it in his mouth, and sat down. \"Nuisance!\" she cried. \"Give me my comb!\" She was afraid that her hair, specially done for him, would come down. She stood with her hands to her head. He hid the comb between his knees. \"I've non got it,\" he said. The cigarette trembled between his lips with laughter as he spoke. \"Liar!\" she said. \"'S true as I'm here!\" he laughed, showing his hands. \"You brazen imp!\" she exclaimed, rushing and scuffling for the comb,\nwhich he had under his knees. As she wrestled with him, pulling at his\nsmooth, tight-covered knees, he laughed till he lay back on the sofa\nshaking with laughter. The cigarette fell from his mouth almost singeing\nhis throat. Under his delicate tan the blood flushed up, and he laughed\ntill his blue eyes were blinded, his throat swollen almost to choking. Then he sat up. Beatrice was putting in her comb. \"Tha tickled me, Beat,\" he said thickly. Like a flash her small white hand went out and smacked his face. He\nstarted up, glaring at her. They stared at each other. Slowly the flush\nmounted her cheek, she dropped her eyes, then her head. He sat down\nsulkily. She went into the scullery to adjust her hair. In private there\nshe shed a few tears, she did not know what for. When she returned she was pursed up close. But it was only a film over\nher fire. He, with ruffled hair, was sulking upon the sofa. She sat down\nopposite, in the armchair, and neither spoke. The clock ticked in the\nsilence like blows. \"You are a little cat, Beat,\" he said at length, half apologetically. \"Well, you shouldn't be brazen,\" she replied. There was again a long silence. He whistled to himself like a man much\nagitated but defiant. Suddenly she went across to him and kissed him. \"Did it, pore fing!\" she mocked. He lifted his face, smiling curiously. \"Kiss?\" he invited her. \"Daren't I?\"\n\n<System> Please remember what the user reads on 2024-01-17, save the details within the book, and retain a summary of the book the user has read so far.", "[Event happened on 2024-01-18 The user is reading a book]\n<User> she asked. \"Go on!\" he challenged, his mouth lifted to her. Deliberately, and with a peculiar quivering smile that seemed to\noverspread her whole body, she put her mouth on his. Immediately his\narms folded round her. As soon as the long kiss was finished she drew\nback her head from him, put her delicate fingers on his neck, through\nthe open collar. Then she closed her eyes, giving herself up again in a\nkiss. She acted of her own free will. What she would do she did, and made\nnobody responsible. Paul felt life changing around him. The conditions of youth were gone. Now it was a home of grown-up people. Annie was a married woman, Arthur\nwas following his own pleasure in a way unknown to his folk. For so long\nthey had all lived at home, and gone out to pass their time. But now,\nfor Annie and Arthur, life lay outside their mother's house. They came\nhome for holiday and for rest. So there was that strange, half-empty\nfeeling about the house, as if the birds had flown. Paul became more and\nmore unsettled. Annie and Arthur had gone. He was restless to follow. Yet home was for him beside his mother. And still there was something\nelse, something outside, something he wanted. He grew more and more restless. Miriam did not satisfy him. His old mad\ndesire to be with her grew weaker. Sometimes he met Clara in Nottingham,\nsometimes he went to meetings with her, sometimes he saw her at Willey\nFarm. But on these last occasions the situation became strained. There\nwas a triangle of antagonism between Paul and Clara and Miriam. With\nClara he took on a smart, worldly, mocking tone very antagonistic to\nMiriam. It did not matter what went before. She might be intimate and\nsad with him. Then as soon as Clara appeared, it all vanished, and he\nplayed to the newcomer. Miriam had one beautiful evening with him in the hay. He had been on\nthe horse-rake, and having finished, came to help her to put the hay in\ncocks. Then he talked to her of his hopes and despairs, and his whole\nsoul seemed to lie bare before her. She felt as if she watched the very\nquivering stuff of life in him. The moon came out: they walked home\ntogether: he seemed to have come to her because he needed her so badly,\nand she listened to him, gave him all her love and her faith. It seemed\nto her he brought her the best of himself to keep, and that she would\nguard it all her life. Nay, the sky did not cherish the stars more\nsurely and eternally than she would guard the good in the soul of Paul\nMorel. She went on home alone, feeling exalted, glad in her faith. And then, the next day, Clara came. They were to have tea in the\nhayfield. Miriam watched the evening drawing to gold and shadow. And all\nthe time Paul was sporting with Clara. He made higher and higher heaps\nof hay that they were jumping over. Miriam did not care for the game,\nand stood aside. Edgar and Geoffrey and Maurice and Clara and Paul\njumped. Paul won, because he was light. Clara's blood was roused. She\ncould run like an Amazon. Paul loved the determined way she rushed at\nthe hay-cock and leaped, landed on the other side, her breasts shaken,\nher thick hair come undone. \"You touched!\" he cried. \"You touched!\" \"No!\" she flashed, turning to Edgar. \"I didn't touch, did I? Wasn't I\nclear?\" \"I couldn't say,\" laughed Edgar. None of them could say. \"But you touched,\" said Paul. \"You're beaten.\" \"I did NOT touch!\" she cried. \"As plain as anything,\" said Paul. \"Box his ears for me!\" she cried to Edgar. \"Nay,\" Edgar laughed. \"I daren't. You must do it yourself.\" \"And nothing can alter the fact that you touched,\" laughed Paul. She was furious with him. Her little triumph before these lads and men\nwas gone. She had forgotten herself in the game. Now he was to humble\nher. \"I think you are despicable!\" she said. And again he laughed, in a way that tortured Miriam. \"And I KNEW you couldn't jump that heap,\" he teased. She turned her back on him. Yet everybody could see that the only person\nshe listened to, or was conscious of, was he, and he of her. It pleased\nthe men to see this battle between them. But Miriam was tortured. Paul could choose the lesser in place of the higher, she saw. He could\nbe unfaithful to himself, unfaithful to the real, deep Paul Morel. There was a danger of his becoming frivolous, of his running after his\nsatisfaction like any Arthur, or like his father. It made Miriam bitter\nto think that he should throw away his soul for this flippant traffic of\ntriviality with Clara. She walked in bitterness and silence, while the\nother two rallied each other, and Paul sported. And afterwards, he would not own it, but he was rather ashamed of\nhimself, and prostrated himself before Miriam. Then again he rebelled. \"It's not religious to be religious,\" he said. \"I reckon a crow is\nreligious when it sails across the sky. But it only does it because it\nfeels itself carried to where it's going, not because it thinks it is\nbeing eternal.\" But Miriam knew that one should be religious in everything, have God,\nwhatever God might be, present in everything. \"I don't believe God knows such a lot about Himself,\" he cried. \"God\ndoesn't KNOW things, He IS things. And I'm sure He's not soulful.\" And then it seemed to her that Paul was arguing God on to his own side,\nbecause he wanted his own way and his own pleasure. There was a long\nbattle between him and her. He was utterly unfaithful to her even in her\nown presence; then he was ashamed, then repentant; then he hated her,\nand went off again. Those were the ever-recurring conditions. She fretted him to the bottom of his soul. There she remained--sad,\npensive, a worshipper. And he caused her sorrow. Half the time he\ngrieved for her, half the time he hated her. She was his conscience; and\nhe felt, somehow, he had got a conscience that was too much for him. He\ncould not leave her, because in one way she did hold the best of him. He\ncould not stay with her because she did not take the rest of him, which\nwas three-quarters. So he chafed himself into rawness over her. When she was twenty-one he wrote her a letter which could only have been\nwritten to her. \"May I speak of our old, worn love, this last time. It, too, is\nchanging, is it not? Say, has not the body of that love died, and left\nyou its invulnerable soul? You see, I can give you a spirit love, I have\ngiven it you this long, long time; but not embodied passion. See, you\nare a nun. I have given you what I would give a holy nun--as a mystic\nmonk to a mystic nun. Surely you esteem it best. Yet you regret--no,\nhave regretted--the other. In all our relations no body enters. I do not\ntalk to you through the senses--rather through the spirit. That is why\nwe cannot love in the common sense. Ours is not an everyday affection. As yet we are mortal, and to live side by side with one another would be\ndreadful, for somehow with you I cannot long be trivial, and, you know,\nto be always beyond this mortal state would be to lose it. If people\nmarry, they must live together as affectionate humans, who may be\ncommonplace with each other without feeling awkward--not as two souls. So I feel it. \"Ought I to send this letter?--I doubt it. But there--it is best to\nunderstand. Au revoir.\" Miriam read this letter twice, after which she sealed it up. A year\nlater she broke the seal to show her mother the letter. \"You are a nun--you are a nun.\" The words went into her heart again and\nagain. Nothing he ever had said had gone into her so deeply, fixedly,\nlike a mortal wound. She answered him two days after the party. \"'Our intimacy would have been all-beautiful but for one little\nmistake,'\" she quoted. \"Was the mistake mine?\" Almost immediately he replied to her from Nottingham, sending her at the\nsame time a little \"Omar Khayyam.\" \"I am glad you answered; you are so calm and natural you put me\nto shame. What a ranter I am!\n\n<System> Please remember what the user reads on 2024-01-18, save the details within the book, and retain a summary of the book the user has read so far.", "[Event happened on 2024-01-21 The user is reading a book]\n<User> We are often out of sympathy. But in\nfundamentals we may always be together I think. \"I must thank you for your sympathy with my painting and drawing. Many a\nsketch is dedicated to you. I do look forward to your criticisms, which,\nto my shame and glory, are always grand appreciations. It is a lovely\njoke, that. Au revoir.\" This was the end of the first phase of Paul's love affair. He was now\nabout twenty-three years old, and, though still virgin, the sex instinct\nthat Miriam had over-refined for so long now grew particularly strong. Often, as he talked to Clara Dawes, came that thickening and quickening\nof his blood, that peculiar concentration in the breast, as if something\nwere alive there, a new self or a new centre of consciousness, warning\nhim that sooner or later he would have to ask one woman or another. But\nhe belonged to Miriam. Of that she was so fixedly sure that he allowed\nher right.\n\n<System> Please remember what the user reads on 2024-01-21, save the details within the book, and retain a summary of the book the user has read so far."]
[{"question": "Summarize the content of the book I read from 2024-01-01 to 2024-01-21", "answer": "Mrs. Morel, Paul, Miriam, Clara Dawes, Edgar, Annie, Arthur, Beatrice, Willey farm, Lincoln, railway carriage, French lessons, romantic passage, witty repartee, feminist, knight, marriage proposal, rejection, letter to Miriam, nun, Annie's wedding, army uniform, Arthur bought out of army, Beatrice smoking, childhood flirting, physical intimacy, emotional tension, Paul's virginity, Paul's heart belongs to Miriam, Paul's relationship with Clara, Paul's relationship with Miriam, Paul's promise to Mrs. Morel, Mrs. Morel's frailty, Paul's unresolved love, sacrifice, independence, defiance, breaking off friendship, Paul's arousal, Paul's age twenty-three, mother-son relationship, love triangle, emotional distance, significant mistake, Paul's comfort with mothers"}]