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TIME PASSESanother, and lunged and plunged in the darknessor the daylight (for night and day, month andyear ran shapelessly together) in idiot games,until it seemed as if the universe were battlingand tumbling, in brute confusion and wantonlust aimlessly by itself.

In spring the garden urns, casually filled withwind-blown plants, were gay as ever. Violetscame and daffodils. But the stillness and thebrightness of the day were as strange as the chaosand tumult of night, with the trees standing there,and the flowers standing there, looking beforethem, looking up, yet beholding nothing, eyeless,and so terrible.8

Thinking no harm, for the family would notcome, never again, some said, and the house wouldbe sold at Michaelmas perhaps, Mrs. McNabstooped and picked a bunch of flowers to takehome with her. She laid them on the tablewhile she dusted. She was fond of flowers. Itwas a pity to let them waste. Suppose the housewere sold (she stood arms akimbo in front of thelooking-glass) it would want seeing to—it would.There it had stood all these years without a soulin it. The books and things were mouldy, for,what with the war and help being hard to get,O209