Besides, her pen was no longer able to absorb her attention, to keep her
mind from wandering. The solitude of her desk gave her the feeling of a
prison. Her body made perpetual claims upon her, as though it were some
restless, fretful child, dragging her out into the streets without
knowing where it wanted to go, discontented with everything it did: then
hurrying her back to fling itself upon a chair, weary, but still
dissatisfied.
If only she could do something. She was sick of thinking.
These physical activities into which women were throwing themselves!
Where one used one's body as well as one's brain--hastened to
appointments; gathered round noisy tables; met fellow human beings,
argued with them, walked with them, laughing and talking; forced one's
way through crowds; cheered, shouted; stood up on platforms before a sea
of faces; roused applause, filling and emptying one's lungs; met
interruptions with swift flash of wit or anger, faced opposition,
danger--felt one's blood surging through one's veins, felt one's nerves
quivering with excitement; felt the delirious thrill of passion; felt the
mad joy of the loosened animal.
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