THE WINDoWlittle boy would be less well grown thanJames.It’s too short," she said, " ever so muchtoo short.’

Never did anybody look so sad. Bitter andblack, half—way down, in the darkness, in the shaftwhich ran from the sunlight to the depths, perhapsa tear formed; a tear fell; the waters swayed thisway and that, received it, and were at rest. Neverdid anybody look so sad.

But was it nothing but looks? people said.What was there behind it—her beauty, hersplendour? Had he blown his brains out, theyasked, had he died the week before they weremarried——some other, earlier lover, of whomrumours reached one? Or was there nothing?nothing but an incomparable beauty which shelived behind, and could do nothing to disturb?For easily though she might have said at somemoment of intimacy when stories of great passion,of love foiled, of ambition thwarted came herway how she too had known or felt or beenthrough it herself, she never spoke. She wassilent always. She knew then—she knew withouthaving. learnt. Her simplicity fathomed whatclever people falsified. Her singleness of mindmade her drop plumb like a stone, alight exact asa bird, gave her, naturally, this swoop and fall of49

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