Sons and Lovers - Daimon Club

He was most himself when he was alone, or working hard and
mechanically at the factory. In the latter case there was pure
forgetfulness, when he lapsed from consciousness. But it had to come
to an end. It hurt him so, that things had lost their reality.
The first snowdrops came. He saw the tiny drop-pearls among the
grey. They would have given him the liveliest emotion at one time.
Now they were there, but they did not seem to mean anything. In
a few moments they would cease to occupy that place, and just the
space would be, where they had been. Tall, brilliant tram-cars
ran along the street at night. It seemed almost a wonder they
should trouble to rustle backwards and forwards. "Why trouble
to go tilting down to Trent Bridges?" he asked of the big trams.
It seemed they just as well might NOT be as be.
The realest thing was the thick darkness at night. That seemed
to him whole and comprehensible and restful. He could leave himself
to it. Suddenly a piece of paper started near his feet and blew
along down the pavement. He stood still, rigid, with clenched fists,