She made noises between weeping and laughter as she went. ’ She bit her lip, frowning. I have often felt before that it is only when one has nothing to say that one can write easy poetry. It seemed to her the last desperate attack upon the universe that would not let her live as she desired to live, that penned her in and controlled her and directed her and disapproved of her, the same invincible wrappering, the same leaden tyranny of a universe that she had vowed to overcome after that memorable conflict with her father at Morningside Park. ’ ‘What?’ ‘Neat little toy. " Ideas are never born; they are suggested; they are planted seeds. “This is not a matter altogether for levity, Anna,” she said. Taking the direction pointed out, he rode off. She became more and more alive, not so much to a system of ideas as to a big diffused impulse toward change, to a great discontent with and criticism of life as it is lived, to a clamorous confusion of ideas for reconstruction—reconstruction of the methods of business, of economic development, of the rules of property, of the status of children, of the clothing and feeding and teaching of every one; she developed a quite exaggerated consciousness of a multitude of people going about the swarming spaces of London with their minds full, their talk and gestures full, their very clothing charged with the suggestion of the urgency of this pervasive project of alteration. He sat down beside her just as the room became darker.
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