somebody else’s wickedness, and then, when we’ve got up steam like hell, back the engine and run bish! smash! against the belly of the offender. Because he said he didn’t want to love any more, we hate him for evermore, and try to run over him, every bit of him, with our love-tanks. And all the time we yell at him: “Will you deny love, you villain? Will you?” And by the time he faintly squeaks, “I want to be loved! I want to be loved!” we have got so used to running over him with our love-tanks that we don’t feel in a hurry to leave off.

“Sois mon fr�re, ou je te tue.” “Sois mon fr�re, ou je me tue.”

There are the two parrot-threats of love, on which our loving centuries have run as on a pair of railway-lines.