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Chapter 4

           Itwasinthatmoment’sflightbetweenthepictureandhercanvasthatthedemonssetonherwhooftenbroughthertothevergeoftearsandmadethispassagefromconceptiontoworkasdreadfulasanydownadarkpassageforachild.Suchsheoftenfeltherselfstrugglingagainstterrificoddstomaintainhercourage;tosay:"ButthisiswhatIsee;thisiswhatIsee,"andsotoclaspsomemiserableremnantofhervisiontoherbreast,whichathousandforcesdidtheirbesttopluckfromher.Anditwasthentoo,inthatchillandwindyway,asshebegantopaint,thatthereforcedthemselvesuponherotherthings,herowninadequacy,herinsignificance,keepinghouseforherfatherofftheBromptonRoad,andhadmuchadotocontrolherimpulsetoflingherself(thankHeavenshehadalwaysresistedsofar)atMrs.Ramsay’skneeandsaytoherbutwhatcouldonesaytoher?"I’minlovewithyou?"No,thatwasnottrue."I’minlovewiththisall,"wavingherhandatthehedge,atthehouse,atthechildren.Itwasabsurd,itwasimpossible.Sonowshelaidherbrushesneatlyinthebox,sidebyside,andsaidtoWilliamBankes:

           "Itsuddenlygetscold.Thesunseemstogivelessheat,"shesaid,lookingabouther,foritwasbrightenough,thegrassstillasoftdeepgreen,thehousestarredinitsgreenerywithpurplepassionflowers,androoksdroppingcoolcriesfromthehighblue.Butsomethingmoved,flashed,turnedasilverwingintheair.ItwasSeptemberafterall,themiddleofSeptember,andpastsixintheevening.

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