"No." Amy was obviously irritated by the personal application. "That's just it. I say we ought to be free to do what we like. Men do what they like."
"D'you think Jack has lived with other girls?"
"My dear child, how do I know? I should hope he has."
"Hope! Amy, you do make me feel a prig."
"Perhaps you are one. Oh, I don't know. I'm sick of thinking, thinking, thinking about it all. I never get any peace."
"Is there somebody you want to live with?"
"No. I wish there was. Then I should know."
"I wonder if you would know," said Patricia, in a low voice. "Amy, do you really know what love is? Because I don't. I've sometimes let men kiss me, and it doesn't seem to matter in the least. I don't particularly want to kiss them, or be kissed. I've never seen anything in all the flirtation that goes on in dark corners. It's amusing once or twice; but it becomes an awful bore. The men don't interest you. The thought of living with any of them just turns me sick."
Amy listened with attention. Her eyes protruded. She tapped her foot upon the floor.
"Yes, but you're not sensual," she said. "You're not an artist. Experience is a thing every artist must have. Not a humdrum marriage, and children, and washing books ... I must have experience—to do great work...."