Whether you did, or what you did, I don’t mind; it’s not the thing I want

The draper’s window looped with violet- that’ll do; a little cheap perhaps, a little commonplace-since one has a choice of crimes, but then so many (let me peep across again-still sleeping, or pretending sleep! white, worn, the mouth closed-a touch of obstinacy, more than one would think-no hint of sex)-so many crimes aren’t your crime; your crime was cheap; only the retribution solemn; for now the church door opens, the hard wooden pew receives her; on the brown tiles she kneels; every day, winter, summer, dusk, dawn (here she’s at it) prays. All her sins fall, fall, for ever fall. The spot receives them. It’s raised, it’s red, it’s burning. Next she twitches. Small boys point. “Bob at lunch to-day”-But elderly women are the worst.

Indeed now you can’t sit praying any longer. Kruger’s sunk beneath the clouds-washed over as with a painter’s brush of liquid grey, to which he adds a tinge of black-even the tip of the truncheon gone now. That’s what always happens! It’s Hilda now.

Just as you’ve seen him, felt him, someone interrupts

How you hate her! She’ll even lock the bathroom door overnight, too, though it’s only cold water you want, and sometimes when the night’s been bad it seems as if washing helped. And John at breakfast-the children-meals are worst, and sometimes there are friends-ferns don’t altogether hide ’em-they guess, too; so out you go along the front, where the waves are grey, and the papers blow, and the glass shelters green and draughty, and the chairs cost tuppence-too much-for there must be preachers along the sands. Ah, that’s a nigger-that’s a funny man-that’s a man with parakeets-poor little creatures! Is there no one here who thinks of God?-just up there, over the pier, with his rod-but no-there’s nothing but grey in the sky or if it’s blue the white clouds hide him, and the music- it’s military music-and what they are fishing for? Do they catch them? How the children stare! Well, then home a back way-“Home a back way!” The words have meaning; might have been spoken by the old man with whiskers-no, no, he didn’t really speak; but everything has meaning-placards leaning against doorways-names above shop-windows-red fruit in baskets-women’s heads in the hairdresser’s-all say “Minnie Marsh!” But here’s a jerk. “Eggs are cheaper!” That’s what always happens! I was heading her over the waterfall, straight for madness, when, like a flock of dream sheep, she turns t’other way and runs between my fingers. Eggs are cheaper. Tethered to the shores of the world, none of the crimes, sorrows, rhapsodies, or insanities for poor Minnie Marsh; never late for luncheon; never caught in a storm without a mackintosh; never utterly unconscious of the cheapness of eggs. So she reaches home-scrapes her boots.

She’s moved her knees-the map’s in bits again

Have I read you right? But the human face-the human face at the top of the fullest sheet of print holds more, withholds more. Now, eyes open, she looks out; and in the human eye-how d’you define it?-there’s a break-a division-so that when you’ve grasped the stem the butterfly’s off-the moth that hangs in the evening over the yellow flower-move, raise your hand, off, high, away http://loansolution.com/installment-loans-sd/. I won’t raise my hand. Hang still, then, quiver, life, soul, spirit, whatever you are of Minnie Marsh-I, too, on my flower-the hawk over the down-alone, or what were the worth of life? To rise; hang still in the evening, in the midday; hang still over the down. The flicker of a hand- off, up! then poised again. Alone, unseen; seeing all so still down there, all so lovely. None seeing, none caring. The eyes of others our prisons; their thoughts our cages. Air above, air below. And the moon and immortality. Oh, but I drop to the turf! Are you down too, you in the corner, what’s your name-woman-Minnie e as that? There she is, tight to her blossom; opening her hand-bag, from which she takes a hollow shell-an egg-who was saying that eggs were cheaper? You or I? Oh, it was you who said it on the way home, you remember, when the old gentleman, suddenly opening his umbrella-or sneezing was it? Anyhow, Kruger went, and you came “home a back way,” and scraped your boots. Yes. And now you lay across your knees a pocket-handkerchief into which drop little angular fragments of eggshell-fragments of a map-a puzzle. I wish I could piece them together! If you would only sit still. Down the slopes of the Andes the white blocks of marble go bounding and hurtling, crushing to death a whole troop of Spanish muleteers, with their convoy-Drake’s booty, gold and silver. But to return-