THE WINDowdone. lf they could be taught to wipe their feetand not bring the beach in with them—thatwould be something. Crabs, she had to allow, ifAndrew really wished to dissect them, or if jasperbelieved that one could make soup from seaweed,one could not prevent it; or Rose’s objectsshells, reeds, stones; for they were gifted, herchildren, but all in quite different ways. Andthe result of it was, she sighed, taking in theWhole room from floor to ceiling, as she heldthe stocking against ]ames’s leg, that thingsgot shabbier and got shabbier summer aftersummer. The mat was fading; the wall-paper wasflapping. You couldn’t tell any more that thosewere roses on it. Still, if every door in a house isleft perpetually open, and no lockmaker in thewhole of Scotland can mend a bolt, things mustspoil. What was the use of flinging a greenCashmere shawl over the edge of a picture frame?In two weeks it would be the colour of pea soup.But it was the doors that annoyed her; every doorwas left open. She listened. The drawing—roomdoor was open; the hall door was open; itsounded as if the bedroom doors were open; andcertainly the window on the landing was open,for that she had opened herself. That windowsshould be open, and doors shut——simple as it was,Could none of them remember it? She would go47
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