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'
I
am
yawning
.
I
am
glutted
with
sensations
.
I
am
exhausted
with
the
strain
and
the
long
,
long
time
--
twenty-five
minutes
,
half
an
hour
--
that
I
have
held
myself
alone
outside
the
machine
.
I
grow
numb
;
I
grow
stiff
.
How
shall
I
break
up
this
numbness
which
discredits
my
sympathetic
heart
?
There
are
others
suffering
--
multitudes
of
people
suffering
.
Neville
suffers
.
He
loved
Percival
.
But
I
can
no
longer
endure
extremities
;
I
want
someone
with
whom
to
laugh
,
with
whom
to
yawn
,
with
whom
to
remember
how
he
scratched
his
head
;
someone
he
was
at
ease
with
and
liked
(
not
Susan
,
whom
he
loved
,
but
Jinny
rather
)
.
In
her
room
also
I
could
do
penance
.
I
could
ask
,
Did
he
tell
you
how
I
refused
him
when
he
asked
me
to
go
to
Hampton
Court
that
day
?
Those
are
the
thoughts
that
will
wake
me
leaping
in
anguish
in
the
middle
of
the
night
--
the
crimes
for
which
one
would
do
penance
in
all
the
markets
of
the
world
bareheaded
;
that
one
did
not
go
to
Hampton
Court
that
day
.
'
But
now
I
want
life
round
me
,
and
books
and
little
ornaments
,
and
the
usual
sounds
of
tradesmen
calling
on
which
to
pillow
my
head
after
this
exhaustion
,
and
shut
my
eyes
after
this
revelation
.
I
will
go
straight
,
then
,
down
the
stairs
,
and
hail
the
first
taxi
and
drive
to
Jinny
.
'
'
There
is
the
puddle
,
'
said
Rhoda
,
'
and
I
can
not
cross
it
.
I
hear
the
rush
of
the
great
grindstone
within
an
inch
of
my
head
.
Its
wind
roars
in
my
face
.
All
palpable
forms
of
life
have
failed
me
.
Unless
I
can
stretch
and
touch
something
hard
,
I
shall
be
blown
down
the
eternal
corridors
for
ever
.
What
,
then
,
can
I
touch
?
What
brick
,
what
stone
?
and
so
draw
myself
across
the
enormous
gulf
into
my
body
safely
?
'N
ow
the
shadow
has
fallen
and
the
purple
light
slants
downwards
.
The
figure
that
was
robed
in
beauty
is
now
clothed
in
ruin
.
The
figure
that
stood
in
the
grove
where
the
steep-backed
hills
come
down
falls
in
ruin
,
as
I
told
them
when
they
said
they
loved
his
voice
on
the
stair
,
and
his
old
shoes
and
moments
of
being
together
.
'N
ow
I
will
walk
down
Oxford
Street
envisaging
a
world
rent
by
lightning
;
I
will
look
at
oaks
cracked
asunder
and
red
where
the
flowering
branch
has
fallen
.
I
will
go
to
Oxford
Street
and
buy
stockings
for
a
party
.
I
will
do
the
usual
things
under
the
lightning
flash
.
On
the
bare
ground
I
will
pick
violets
and
bind
them
together
and
offer
them
to
Percival
,
something
given
him
by
me
.
Look
now
at
what
Percival
has
given
me
.
Look
at
the
street
now
that
Percival
is
dead
.
The
houses
are
lightly
founded
to
be
puffed
over
by
a
breath
of
air
.
Reckless
and
random
the
cars
race
and
roar
and
hunt
us
to
death
like
bloodhounds
.
I
am
alone
in
a
hostile
world
.
The
human
face
is
hideous
.
This
is
to
my
liking
.
I
want
publicity
and
violence
and
to
be
dashed
like
a
stone
on
the
rocks
.
I
like
factory
chimneys
and
cranes
and
lorries
.
I
like
the
passing
of
face
and
face
and
face
,
deformed
,
indifferent
.
I
am
sick
of
prettiness
;
I
am
sick
of
privacy
.
I
ride
rough
waters
and
shall
sink
with
no
one
to
save
me
.
'
Percival
,
by
his
death
,
has
made
me
this
present
,
has
revealed
this
terror
,
has
left
me
to
undergo
this
humiliation
--
faces
and
faces
,
served
out
like
soup-plates
by
scullions
;
coarse
,
greedy
,
casual
;
looking
in
at
shop-windows
with
pendent
parcels
;
ogling
,
brushing
,
destroying
everything
,
leaving
even
our
love
impure
,
touched
now
by
their
dirty
fingers
.
'
Here
is
the
shop
where
they
sell
stockings
.
And
I
could
believe
that
beauty
is
once
more
set
flowing
.
Its
whisper
comes
down
these
aisles
,
through
these
laces
,
breathing
among
baskets
of
coloured
ribbons
.
There
are
then
warm
hollows
grooved
in
the
heart
of
the
uproar
;
alcoves
of
silence
where
we
can
shelter
under
the
wing
of
beauty
from
truth
which
I
desire
.
Pain
is
suspended
as
a
girl
silently
slides
open
a
drawer
.
And
then
,
she
speaks
;
her
voice
wakes
me
.
I
shoot
to
the
bottom
among
the
weeds
and
see
envy
,
jealousy
,
hatred
and
spite
scuttle
like
crabs
over
the
sand
as
she
speaks
.
These
are
our
companion
's
.
I
will
pay
my
bill
and
take
my
parcel
.
'
This
is
Oxford
Street
.
Here
are
hate
,
jealousy
,
hurry
,
and
indifference
frothed
into
the
wild
semblance
of
life
.
These
are
our
companions
.
Consider
the
friends
with
whom
we
sit
and
eat
.
I
think
of
Louis
,
reading
the
sporting
column
of
an
evening
newspaper
,
afraid
of
ridicule
;
a
snob
.
He
says
,
looking
at
the
people
passing
,
he
will
shepherd
us
if
we
will
follow
.
If
we
submit
he
will
reduce
us
to
order
.
Thus
he
will
smooth
out
the
death
of
Percival
to
his
satisfaction
,
looking
fixedly
over
the
cruet
,
past
the
houses
at
the
sky
.
Bernard
,
meanwhile
,
flops
red-eyed
into
some
arm-chair
.
He
will
have
out
his
notebook
;
under
D
,
he
will
enter
"
Phrases
to
be
used
on
the
deaths
of
friends
"
.
Jinny
,
pirouetting
across
the
room
,
will
perch
on
the
arm
of
his
chair
and
ask
,
"
Did
he
love
me
?
"
"
More
than
he
loved
Susan
?
"
Susan
,
engaged
to
her
farmer
in
the
country
,
will
stand
for
a
second
with
the
telegram
before
her
,
holding
a
plate
;
and
then
,
with
a
kick
of
her
heel
,
slam
to
the
oven
door
.
