"Probably. But you won't turn tail any more than I should. You never ran away."
"There are worse things than running away. All the things that go on inside you, the cruel, dreadful things; the cowardices and treacheries. Things that come of never being alone. I have to sit up at night to be alone."
"My child, you mustn't. It's simply criminal."
"If I didn't," she said, "I should never get it in."
He understood her to be alluding thus vaguely to her gift.
"I know it's criminal, with Papa depending on me, and yet I do it. Sometimes I'm up half the night, hammering and hammering at my own things; things, I mean, that won't sell, just to gratify my vanity in having done them."
"To satisfy your instinct for perfection. God made you an artist."
She sighed. "He's made me so many things besides. That's where the misery comes in."
"And a precious poor artist you'd be if he hadn't, and if the misery didn't come in."
She shook her head, superior in her sad wisdom. "Misery's all very well for the big, tragic people like Nina, who can make something out of it. Why throw it away on a wretched, clever little imp like me?"