"Why not?"
"How can it?"
"You think it can't tell me anything about your soul?"
"Oh—my soul——" Her shoulders expressed disdain for it.
"Do you dislike my mentioning it? Would you rather we didn't talk about it? Perhaps you're tired of having it talked about?"
"No; my poor soul has never done anything to get itself talked about."
"I only thought that as your father, perhaps, specialises in souls—"
"He doesn't specialise in mine. He knows nothing about it."
"The specialist never does. To know anything—the least little thing—about the soul, you must know everything—everything you can know—about the body. So that you're wrong even about your soul. Being a physiologist tells me that your sort of body—a transparently clean and strong and utterly unconscious body—goes with a transparently clean and strong and utterly unconscious soul."
"Utterly unconscious?"