"
He gave her one straight look. She looked up at him, calmly. He
dropped his eyes; then, clumsily he walked off, opened his bedroom
door, closed it behind him, and was gone.
She sat there, staring in front of her, thinking. What was she to do
now? At least she might clear up. She had nowhere to wash the
things. She would put them ready for the morning. She tidied the
table, put the plates and cups together, then, overcome by a sudden
exhaustion, she sat down on the sofa.
She realised then the fight that the day had been. Yes, a
fight! . . . and she was still only at the beginning of it. If he
really went away in the morning what could she do? She could not
follow him all round London. But she would not despair yet. No, she
was far from despair. But she was tired, tired to death.
She sat on there in a kind of dream. There were no sounds in the
house. The fire began to drop very low. There were no more coals.
The room began to be very chilly. She laid her head back on the
sofa; she was half asleep. She was dreaming--Paul was there and
Grace--the Skeaton sands--the Revival procession with the lanterns--
the swish of the sea .
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