The blind stirred slightly, but all within was
dimand unsubstantial.
Now we have fallen through the tree-tops to the
earth. I can think of my Armadas sailingon the high waves.
End of this Project Gutenberg of Australia
eBookWHAT ARE WE TO DO WITH OUR LIVES? The air nolonger rolls its long, unhappy,
purple waves over us. It alsotells you how you may distribute copies of this eBook
if you want to.
The stalks of flowersare thick as oak trees. It has
beads of water on it, drops of white light. You will have masters wearingcrosses
with white ties.
Now hottowels envelop me, and their roughness, as I
rub my back, makes myblood purr. Bubbles form on the floor of the saucepan, said
Jinny. Rhodasare like those pale flowers to which moths come in the evening. I will
not conjugate the verb, said Louis, until Bernard hassaid it.
There isa green caterpillar on your
neck.
I cannot surmount thisunintelligible obstacle, I
said.
Hernails meet in the ball of her
pocket-handkerchief. It has beads of water on it, drops of white light. Thatis where
I am going, and Susan and Rhoda.
The dining-room window is dark blue now, said
Bernard, and theair ripples above the chimneys. To contact Project Gutenberg of
Australia go to http://gutenberg. There is the stable clock with itsgilt hands
shining. We shall be shot like jays and pinnedto the wall! Stones are cold to my
feet, said Neville. There is the stable-boy clattering in the yardin rubber boots.
This is my first night at school, said Susan, away from myfather, away from my home.
I am a boy ingrey flannels with a belt fastened by a brass snake up here. It would
make a flower shape as I sankdown, in the middle of the room, on a gilt chair. Here
come warm gusts of decomposingleaves, of rotting vegetation. I see a crimson tassel,
said Jinny, twisted with gold threads.
Bright arrows ofsensation shoot on either
side.
The grey-shelled snail draws across the path and
flattens theblades behind him, said Rhoda. Everybody seems to be doing things for
this moment only; and neveragain. That is the corner of the cupboard; that is the
nursery looking-glass. He is like a dangling wire, a brokenbell-pull, always
twangling.
There they walk at noon, with scissors,
clippingroses.
I will go to the beech woodalone, before lessons.
He is like the seaweed hung outsidethe window, damp now, now dry. The gardener with
the black beard hasseen us! I will take my anguish andlay it upon the roots under
the beech trees. That is the corner of the cupboard; that is the nursery
looking-glass.