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THE WINDOWentire shaped in her hands, beautiful and reason-able, clear and complete, the essence sucked outof life and held rounded here—the sonnet.

But she was becoming conscious of herhusband looking at her. He was smiling at her,quizzically, as if he were ridiculing her gentlyfor being asleep in broad daylight, but at the sametime he was thinking, Go on reading. You don’tlook sad now, he thought. And he wonderedwhat she was reading, and exaggerated herignorance, her simplicity, for he liked to think thatshe was not clever, not book-learned at all. Hewondered if she understood what she was reading.Probably not, he thought. She was astonishinglybeautiful. Her beauty seemed to him, if thatwere possible, to increase.Yet seem’d it winter still, and, you away,As with your shadow I with these did play,she finished.

"Well?" she said, echoing his smile dreamily,looking up from her book.As with your shadow I with these did play,she murmured putting the book on the table.

What had happened she wondered, as she tookup her knitting, since she had last seen him alone?She remembered dressing, and seeing the moon;Andrew holding his plate too high at dinner;187