would confront me again with the more rancor, the more futileness gathered into it from having been put off.
This book and the two dresses are my present portion. If I could escape them (I am not quite sure I want to—but—hell!)—it would be of no use. They would come back again in an unexpected ripeness of time and demand a hearing: an exquisite nervous tragic hearing.
They are such stuff as the conscious analyst is made of.
But though I'm the conscious analyst I can't quite tell whether I write the book because I wear two plain black dresses or I wear those because I write it.
