She opened the window, and Baruch rose and went home.
Whenever Mrs Caffyn talked about the labourers at Great Oakhurst,
whom she knew so well, Clara always felt as if all her reading had
been a farce, and, indeed, if we come into close contact with actual
life, art, poetry and philosophy seem little better than trifling.
When the mist hangs over the heavy clay land in January, and men and
women shiver in the bitter cold and eat raw turnips, to indulge in
fireside ecstasies over the divine Plato or Shakespeare is surely not
such a virtue as we imagine it to be.