264313[It might be Rose; it might be Nancy; it might be that old woman, whats hername, finishing her novel;

Whoever it might be, for Heavens sake let them sit still for& not come floundering out & talk to her.Mercifully, whoever it washad settled down inside;had settled down, by some stroke of luck,soas to throw a shadow there which might be useful.A shadow wasprecisely what she wanted, as it happened.It drewthings togetherIt began to look rather asthoughthe problem might solve itself:she could one only keepon;looking, looking, without for a second relaxing this still intensity ofemotion, this determination not be hoodwinked bamboozlednot to beput off with this or that, butnot to accept what thevile nature of the world proffered; lies & corruption, & theCould one only seek intensely enough Could oneThen distortion, & insincerity; & all that flummery whichdivides us,now

Was she not thinking of almost now in their presence?She didnot need to assure herself that here she [?] ?wished, more quiteclearly than ever before; between the betweenwas knew what was before her, & could with a sweep of hermind master every detail tell the time of day: read the letters on theback of the book even: she was not confusedShe wasIts not confusingednot at all, she assured herself;she was quite on alevel with ordinary experience; only,In the presence of whom? of what?reality: not indeed quite:something troubled hersomething still evaded her; butIt was that perhaps: it wasAnd letting her brush fall to her side,she staredwideeyed at the drawingroom window where for a moment awhite dress so marvellously imitated the figure she hadseen there, ten years ago, that she could scarcelyseen there, tenyears ago. AndHe must see it, he must share it.She turnedhastily to lookfor the boat;
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