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THE WINDOWlittle bit of rubbish—something they had heard,something they had picked up in the garden.They had all their little treasures. . . And so shewent down and said to her husband, Why mustthey grow up and lose it all? Never will they beso happy again. And he was angry. Why takesuch a gloomy view of life? he said. It is notsensible. For it was odd; and she believed it tobe true; that with all his gloom and desperationhe was happier, more hopeful on the whole, thanshe was. Less exposed to human worries—perhaps that was it. He had always his work tofall back on. Not that she herself was "pessi-mistic", as he accused her of being. Only shethought life—and a little strip of time presenteditself to her eyes, her fifty years. There it wasbefore her—life. Life: she thought but she didnot finish her thought. She took a look at life,for she had a clear sense of it there, somethingreal, something private, which she shared neitherwith her children nor with her husband. A sortof transaction went on between them, in whichshe was on one side, and life was on another, andshe was always trying to get the better of it, asit was of her; and sometimes they parleyed (whenshe sat alone); there were, she remembered,great reconciliation scenes; but for the mostpart, oddly enough, she must admit that she95