One morning he caught her hand suddenly and kissed it. ‘Jacques, where are you hurt?’ But as she asked the question, she saw the wound. But in his presence a wall of diffidence and timidity encompassed her. But women—women as a rule don’t throw themselves into things like that. Her eyes seemed to be looking backwards. She went from period to period exactly as she would have read prose; so that sense and music were equally balanced. “What are you doing here? How dare you come to my rooms!” The man stepped into the middle of the room. Hanging about! And they start thinking and asking questions, and begin to be neither one thing nor the other. There's the paragraph.
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