They have no ideas what to do with us. “We may just as well have our talk afterwards,” she said, “and I need not keep poor Mr. Jack, whose clothes were covered with dust, and whose face was deathly pale from his recent exertion, looked more like a phantom than a living person. He too looked at the girl, slackened his pace and looked at her again through his eye-glasses, looked over his shoulder after he had passed, and finally came to a dead stop. That is what terrified her: the consciousness that nothing in her life would be continuous, that she would no sooner form friendships (like the present) than relentless fate would thrust her into a new circle. “Yes,” he said, “I want to get away. G. But those days are over—quite over. Her sadness was manageable only because she was so familiar with its phases, because she could observe its moods remotely, like an astronomer studying the moon. To divide the agony into two spheres so that one would mitigate the other. The both of them puttering about the tidy two-story house, Lucy would serve them both steaming cups of tea in the front parlor. From the first I could see that neither believed my story. It's your eagerness that bothers me. And not a worthy tome in sight. He regretted now that in his idle hours he hadn't hunted up one against the rainy day.
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