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Chapter 11

           TherewasafamousmannowcalledCarmichael,shesmiled,thinkinghowmanyshapesonepersonmightwear,howhewasthatinthenewspapers,butherethesameashehadalwaysbeen.Helookedthesamegreyer,rather.Yes,helookedthesame,butsomebodyhadsaid,sherecalled,thatwhenhehadheardofAndrewRamsay’sdeath(hewaskilledinasecondbyashell;heshouldhavebeenagreatmathematician)Mr.Carmichaelhad"lostallinterestinlife."Whatdiditmeanthat?shewondered.HadhemarchedthroughTrafalgarSquaregraspingabigstick?Hadheturnedpagesoverandover,withoutreadingthem,sittinginhisroominSt.John’sWoodalone?Shedidnotknowwhathehaddone,whenheheardthatAndrewwaskilled,butshefeltitinhimallthesame.Theyonlymumbledateachotheronstaircases;theylookedupattheskyandsaiditwillbefineoritwon’tbefine.Butthiswasonewayofknowingpeople,shethought:toknowtheoutline,notthedetail,tositinone’sgardenandlookattheslopesofahillrunningpurpledownintothedistantheather.Sheknewhiminthatway.Sheknewthathehadchangedsomehow.Shehadneverreadalineofhispoetry.Shethoughtthatsheknewhowitwentthough,slowlyandsonorously.Itwasseasonedandmellow.Itwasaboutthedesertandthecamel.Itwasaboutthepalmtreeandthesunset.Itwasextremelyimpersonal;itsaidsomethingaboutdeath;itsaidverylittleaboutlove.Therewasanimpersonalityabouthim.Hewantedverylittleofotherpeople.

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