. . "
I was on the point of interrupting Marlow when he stopped of himself, his
eyes fixed on vacancy, or--perhaps--(I wouldn't be too hard on him) on a
vision. He has the habit, or, say, the fault, of defective mantelpiece
clocks, of suddenly stopping in the very fulness of the tick. If you
have ever lived with a clock afflicted with that perversity, you know how
vexing it is--such a stoppage. I was vexed with Marlow. He was smiling
faintly while I waited. He even laughed a little. And then I said
acidly:
"Am I to understand that you have ferreted out something comic in the
history of Flora de Barral?"
"Comic!" he exclaimed. "No! What makes you say? . . . Oh, I
laughed--did I? But don't you know that people laugh at absurdities that
are very far from being comic? Didn't you read the latest books about
laughter written by philosophers, psychologists? There is a lot of them
. . . "
"I dare say there has been a lot of nonsense written about laughter--and
tears, too, for that matter," I said impatiently.
"They say," pursued the unabashed Marlow, "that we laugh from a sense of
superiority.
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