THE WINDOWlittle bag, might he not carry that? No, no, shesaid, she always carried that herself. She did too.Yes, he felt that in her. He felt many things,something in particular that excited him anddisturbed him for reasons which he could not give.He would like her to see him, gowned and hooded,walking in a procession. A fellowship, a pro-fessorship, he felt capable of anything and sawhimself—but what was she looking at? At a manpasting a bill. The vast flapping sheet flatteneditself out, and each shove of the brush revealedfresh legs, hoops, horses, glistening reds and blues,beautifully smooth, until half the wall was coveredwith the advertisement of a circus; a hundredhorsemen, twenty performing seals, lions, tigers. . .Craning forwards, for she was short-sighted, sheread it out . . . "will visit this town," she read. Itwas terribly dangerous work for a one-armed man,she exclaimed, to stand on top of a ladder likethat—his left arm had been cut off in a reapingmachine two years ago.

"Let us all go!" she cried, moving on, as if allthose riders and horses had filled her with child-like exultation and made her forget her pity.

"Let's go", he said, repeating her words,clicking them out, however, with a self-conscious-ness that made her wince. "Let us go to theCircus." No. He could not say it right. He23
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