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THE WINDOWwalk about the country all day long, with nothingbut a biscuit in his pocket and nobody botheredabout him, or thought that he had fallen over acliff. He said aloud he thought he would be offfor a day’s walk if the weather held. He hadhad about enough of Bankes and of Carmichael.He would like a little solitude. Yes, she said. Itannoyed him that she did not protest. She knewthat he would never do it. He was too old now towalk all day long with a biscuit in his pocket.She worried about the boys, but not about him.Years ago, before he had married, he thought,looking across the bay, as they stood between theclumps of red-hot pokers, he had walked all day.He had made a meal off bread and cheese in apublic house. He had worked ten hours at astretch; an old woman just popped her head innow and again and saw to the fire. That was thecountry he liked best, over there; those sandhillsdwindling away into darkness. One could walkall day without meeting a soul. There was not ahouse scarcely, not a single village for miles onend. One could worry things out alone. Therewere little sandy beaches where no one had beensince the beginning of time. The seals sat up andlooked at you. It sometimes seemed to him thatin a little house out there, alone—he broke off,sighing. He had no right. The father of eight109