(9)room, she sang. Rubbing the glass of the long looking glassand leering sideways at her swinging figure a sound issuedfrom her lips - something that had been gay twenty years beforeon the stage perhaps, had been hummed and danced to, but nowcoming from the toothless, bonneted, care-taking woman wasrubbed of meaning, was like the voice of witlessness, humour,persistency itself trodden down but springing up again, so thatas she lurched, dusting, wiping, she seemed to say how it was onelong sorrow and trouble, how it was getting up and going to bedagain, and bringing things out and putting them away again. Itwas not easy or snug this world she had known for close oneighty years. Bowed down she was with weariness. How long,she asked, creaking and groaning on her knees under the beddusting the boards, how long shall it endure? but hobbled toher feet again, pulled herself up and again, with her sidelongleer which slipped and turned aside even from her own face, andher own sorrows, stood and gaped in the glass, actually smiling,and began again the old amble and hobble (taking up mats,putting down china) granting, as she stood the chair straight bythe dressing table, her forgiveness of it all.leaning her bony breasts on the hard thorn.

Was it then that she had her consolations, when, with thebreeze in the west and the clouds white in the sun she stood ather cottage door? For what reason did there twine about herdirge this incorrigible hope? and why, with no gift to bestowand no gift to take did she yet prefer to live,; singing, and
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