“Patricia was aware of a chill.
“‘But you’ve never,’ she urged. ‘I’ve never.’
“‘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 to 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.’”