"Something's hurt you ... all right ... don't talk about it if you don't want to ... a man?"
"It usually is a man, isn't it?"
Her eyes were turned away from him, and she answered with a kind of shamefaced defiance.
"Practically always," said Wimsey. "Fortunately, one gets over it."
"Depends what it is."
"One gets over everything," repeated Wimsey, firmly. "Particularly if one tells somebody about it."
"One can't always tell things."
"I can't imagine anything really untellable."
"Some things are so beastly."
"Oh, yes—quite a lot of things. Birth is beastly—and death—and digestion, if it comes to that. Sometimes when I think of what's happening inside me to a beautiful suprème de sole, with the caviare in boats, and the croûtons and the jolly little twists of potato and all the gadgets—I could cry. But there it is, don't you know."