Волны

           ButifIdonotnailtheseimpressionstotheboardandoutofthemanymeninmemakeone;existhereandnowandnotinstreaksandpatches,likescatteredsnowwreathsonfarmountains;andaskMissJohnsonasIpassthroughtheofficeaboutthemoviesandtakemycupofteaandacceptalsomyfavouritebiscuit,thenIshallfalllikesnowandbewasted.

           ’Yetwhensixo’clockcomesandItouchmyhattothecommissionaire,beingalwaystooeffusiveinceremonysinceIdesiresomuchtobeaccepted;andstruggle,leaningagainstthewind,buttonedup,withmyjawsblueandmyeyesrunningwater,Iwishthatalittletypistwouldcuddleonmyknees;Ithinkthatmyfavouritedishisliverandbacon;andsoamapttowandertotheriver,tothenarrowstreetswheretherearefrequentpublic-houses,andtheshadowsofshipspassingattheendofthestreet,andwomenfighting.ButIsaytomyself,recoveringmysanity,MrPrenticeatfour;MrEyresatfour-thirty.Thehatchetmustfallontheblock;theoakmustbeclefttothecentre.Theweightoftheworldisonmyshoulders.Hereisthepenandthepaper;onthelettersinthewirebasketIsignmyname,I,I,andagainI.’

           ’Summercomes,andwinter,’saidSusan.’Theseasonspass.Thepearfillsitselfanddropsfromthetree.Thedeadleafrestsonitsedge.Butsteamhasobscuredthewindow.Isitbythefirewatchingthekettleboil.Iseethepeartreethroughthestreakedsteamonthewindow-pane.

           ’Sleep,sleep,Icroon,whetheritissummerorwinter,MayorNovember.