TIME PASSESing up again, so that as she lurched, dusting, wiping,she seemed to say how it was one long sorrow andtrouble, how it was getting up and going to bedagain, and bringing things out and putting themaway again. It was not easy or snug this world shehad known for close on seventy years. Bowed downshe was with weariness. How long, she asked,creaking and groaning on her knees under the bed,dusting the boards, how long shall it endure? buthobbled to her feet again, pulled herself up, andagain with her sidelong leer which slipped andturned aside even from her own face, and her ownsorrows, stood and gaped in the glass, aimlesslysmiling, and began again the old amble and hobble,taking up mats, putting down china, looking side-ways in the glass, as if, after all, she had her consola-tions, as if indeed there twined about her dirge someincorrigible hope. Visions of joy there must havebeen at the wash-tub, say with her children (yet twohad been base-born and one had deserted her), at thepublic-house, drinking; turning over scraps in herdrawers. Some cleavage of the dark there must havebeen, some channel in the depths of obscuritythrough which light enough issued to twist her facegrinning in the glass and make her, turning to herjob again, mumble out the old music hall song.The mystic, the visionary, walking the beach on a197
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