He leaned up and wound his
arms around the plump, formless waist in the neat dressing-gown. "So
would _she_--if there were a she. I hate the 'bigness,' too--the kind
of false, smart bigness that you mean. We'll have a little house--she
and you and I. For your room will be there, and you'll be in it
whenever father'll spare you. But I'm running away in what I used to
call my 'dreamobile!' I haven't found her yet. That is, I found her
once and lost her again. I'm looking for her now. Mother, do you know
what a _'leitmotif'_ is?"
"No, dear, indeed I don't. I'm afraid I don't know many of the things
I---"
"There's no reason why you should know this. In Wagner's operas, which
I don't understand, perhaps, but which I love with thrills in my
spine--and that's a _kind_ of understanding--whenever a character
comes on the stage he or she always is followed by a certain strain of
music--music that expresses character, and seems even to describe a
person. Well, wallflower perfume might be your _leitmotif_. Can't you
_hear_ perfume? I can. Just as you can seem to see music--wonderful,
changing colours. The wallflower scent's all around us now.
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