She looked up—what demon possessed him,her youngest, her cherished?—and saw the room,saw the chairs,[∧]thoughtthemfearfully shabby. Their entrails,as Andrew said the other day, were all over thefloor; but then what was the point, she askedherself,[%]of buying good chairs to let them spoilup here all through the winter?[%]when the house,with only one old woman to see to it, positivelydripped with wet? Never mind, shabby it was;shabby it must be.[%]TVW: Capital T changed to lowercase.l. che rent was preciselytwopence halfpenny; the children loved it; it didher husband good to be three thousand, or if shemust be accurate, three hundred miles from hislibraries and his lectures and his disciples; andthere was room for visitors. Mats, camp beds,crazy ghosts of chairs and tables whose Londonlife of service was done—they did well enoughhere; and a photograph or two, and books.Books, she thought, grew of themselves. Shenever had time to read them. Alas! even thebooks that had been given her[∧],&inscribedby thehand of VW: Six line marginal addition lassoed and tied to the caret. —saraheilefsonthe poethimselfwith those inscrip-tions:[%]"For her whose wishes must be obeyed”. . . "The happier Helen of our days" . . .Dl. cisgraceful to say, though the poems were verybeautiful, and George Manning gave them to herhimself, she had never read them. And Croom onthe Mind and Bates on the Savage Customs ofPolynesia ("My dear, stand still," she said)—46
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