“But how can you?” asked Constance. She tiptoed to the stand and gathered up the manuscripts which she carried to a chair by the window. He turned back at once. He thought of her and himself, and no longer in that vein of incidental adventure in which he had begun. . She went to a dramatic agent, and he turned out to be the one who had heard me sing in Paris. Her knees almost sank beneath her as she raised the latch of the front door and looked out. One’s got to be a better man than one’s father, or what is the good of successive generations? Life is rebellion, or nothing.
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