Лето

           Onedayasshesataloneinthelibraryponderingthesethingsthewallsofbooksbegantospinaroundher,andtherosewooddesktorockunderherelbows.ThedizzinesswasfollowedbyawaveofnausealikethatshehadfeltonthedayoftheexercisesintheTownHall.ButtheTownHallhadbeencrowdedandstiflinglyhot,andthelibrarywasempty,andsochillythatshehadkeptonherjacket.Fiveminutesbeforeshehadfeltperfectlywell;andnowitseemedasifsheweregoingtodie.Thebitoflaceatwhichshestilllanguidlyworkeddroppedfromherfingers,andthesteelcrochethookclatteredtothefloor.Shepressedhertempleshardbetweenherdamphands,steadyingherselfagainstthedeskwhilethewaveofsicknesssweptoverher.Littlebylittleitsubsided,andafterafewminutesshestoodup,shakenandterrified,gropedforherhat,andstumbledoutintotheair.Butthewholesunlitautumnwhirled,reeledandroaredaroundherasshedraggedherselfalongtheinterminablelengthoftheroadhome.

           Assheapproachedtheredhouseshesawabuggystandingatthedoor,andherheartgavealeap.ButitwasonlyMr.Royallwhogotout,histravelling-baginhand.Hesawhercoming,andwaitedintheporch.Shewasconsciousthathewaslookingatherintently,asiftherewassomethingstrangeinherappearance,andshethrewbackherheadwithadesperateeffortatease.Theireyesmet,andshesaid:“Youback?”asifnothinghadhappened,andheanswered:“Yes,I’mback,”andwalkedinaheadofher,pushingopenthedoorofhisoffice.