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Chapter 17

           ThenwhensheturnedtoWilliamBankes,smiling,itwasasiftheshiphadturnedandthesunhadstruckitssailsagain,andLilythoughtwithsomeamusementbecauseshewasrelieved,Whydoesshepityhim?Forthatwastheimpressionshegave,whenshetoldhimthathisletterswereinthehall.PoorWilliamBankes,sheseemedtobesaying,asifherownwearinesshadbeenpartlypityingpeople,andthelifeinher,herresolvetoliveagain,hadbeenstirredbypity.Anditwasnottrue,Lilythought;itwasoneofthosemisjudgmentsofhersthatseemedtobeinstinctiveandtoarisefromsomeneedofherownratherthanofotherpeople’s.Heisnotintheleastpitiable.Hehashiswork,Lilysaidtoherself.Sheremembered,allofasuddenasifshehadfoundatreasure,thatshehadherwork.Inaflashshesawherpicture,andthought,Yes,Ishallputthetreefurtherinthemiddle;thenIshallavoidthatawkwardspace.That’swhatIshalldo.That’swhathasbeenpuzzlingme.Shetookupthesaltcellarandputitdownagainonaflowerpatterninthetable-cloth,soastoremindherselftomovethetree.

           "It’soddthatonescarcelygetsanythingworthhavingbypost,yetonealwayswantsone’sletters,"saidMr.Bankes.

           Whatdamnedrottheytalk,thoughtCharlesTansley,layingdownhisspoonpreciselyinthemiddleofhisplate,whichhehadsweptclean,asif,Lilythought(hesatoppositetoherwithhisbacktothewindowpreciselyinthemiddleofview),heweredeterminedtomakesureofhismeals.

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