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Chapter 5

           Theirentrails,asAndrewsaidtheotherday,werealloverthefloor;butthenwhatwasthepoint,sheasked,ofbuyinggoodchairstoletthemspoiluphereallthroughthewinterwhenthehouse,withonlyoneoldwomantoseetoit,positivelydrippedwithwet?Nevermind,therentwaspreciselytwopencehalf-penny;thechildrenlovedit;itdidherhusbandgoodtobethreethousand,orifshemustbeaccurate,threehundredmilesfromhislibrariesandhislecturesandhisdisciples;andtherewasroomforvisitors.Mats,campbeds,crazyghostsofchairsandtableswhoseLondonlifeofservicewasdonetheydidwellenoughhere;andaphotographortwo,andbooks.Books,shethought,grewofthemselves.Sheneverhadtimetoreadthem.Alas!eventhebooksthathadbeengivenherandinscribedbythehandofthepoethimself:"Forherwhosewishesmustbeobeyed"..."ThehappierHelenofourdays"...disgracefultosay,shehadneverreadthem.AndCroomontheMindandBatesontheSavageCustomsofPolynesia("Mydear,standstill,"shesaid)neitherofthosecouldonesendtotheLighthouse.Atacertainmoment,shesupposed,thehousewouldbecomesoshabbythatsomethingmustbedone.Iftheycouldbetaughttowipetheirfeetandnotbringthebeachinwiththemthatwouldbesomething.

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