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will nature make a man of me yet?


'Evelyn looked at Charles, straight across, as if to say: You are looking. What Evelyn loathed, beyond compare (Charles knew) was that Charles was seeing—the blood in the cracks in the lips, the violet blood beneath the teeth-marks on the neck, the blood in the vessels in the eyes, the blood in the vessels on the nose, the cheek: all that aliveness, that decaying; the feathery wrinkles beneath the eyes, the bruises beneath the eyes, the hollow grey eyes: one could not say they were lively. One could not say anything, Charles felt. One could—he approached the thought sidelong, the action thoughtfully—one could touch the side of this sorry face.'

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