When she saw it her heart raced in front of
her, like a pony, suddenly released, kicking its heels. And her
thoughts were so strangely wild! The lovely night, yes, purple like
Mrs. Mark's curtains and scented oranges, chrysanthemums, boot-
polish and candied sugar.--Oh yes! how kind they had been--nice
clergyman, fat a little, but young in spite of his white hair, and
Aunt Anne in bed under the crucifix struggling and Mr. Crashaw
smiling lustfully at Caroline . . . The long black streets, strips
of silk and the lamps like fat buttons on a coat, there was a cat!
Hist! Hist! A streak of black against black . . . and the Chapel
bell ringing and Thomas' fiery eyes . . .
Behind all this confusion there was Martin, Martin, Martin. Creeping
nearer and nearer as though he were just behind her, or was it that
she was creeping nearer and nearer to him? She did not know, but her
heart now was beating so thickly that it was as though giants were
wrapping cloth after cloth round it, hot cloths, but their hands
were icy cold. No, she was simply excited, desperately, madly
excited.
She had never been excited before, and now, with the excitement,
there was mingled the strangest hot pain and cold pity.
Pages:
377
378
379
380
381
382
383
384
385
386
387
388
389
390
391
392
393
394
395
396
397
398
399
400
401