Nevertheless she pursued her way through this, but without
her own agency, as though some outside person were reading to her
and she was not listening.
She repeated the last words "Always your friend, William Magnus"
aloud solemnly twice. Her thoughts ran in leaps and runs, hurdle-
race-wise across the flat level of her brain. Martin. Old. Ill.
Paris. Those walls out there and the road-man with a spade--little
boy walking with him--chattering--it's going to be hot. The light
across the lawn is almost blue and the beds are dry. His room. The
looking-glass. Always tilts back when one tries to see one's hair.
Meant to speak about it. Martin. Ill. Paris. Paris. Trains. Boats.
How quickly could one be there? No time at all. Paris. Never been to
Paris. Perhaps he isn't there now . . .
At that definite picture she controlled her mind again. She pulled
it up as a driver drags back a restive horse. Her first real thought
was: "How hard that this letter should have come now when I was just
going to put everything right with Paul." Her next: "Poor Paul! But
I don't care for him a bit . . . I don't care for any one but
Martin.
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