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Poor, dear Janet, what a prig—what an intellectualsnob! Her real taste was illustrated in that water-colour by the pavement artist, the one she hadpaid half-a-crown for (and thirty-five shillings for the frame).

“A real Artistin the streets,” and you could hear the capital A in Artist as she spoke the words.

Others abide our question, thou art free.…Footsteps in the sea…Majesty…

มาจาก โคลง Shakespeare

Shakespeare, thoushouldst be living at this hour. No, that was Milton, wasn’t it?

What a queer face she had! That small mouth pursed forward by the Gioconda expression intoa little snout with a round hole in the middle as though for whistling—it was like a penholderseen from the front. Above the mouth a well-shaped nose, finely aquiline.

“I thought I’d just look in on my way home,” Mr. Hutton went on.

  “It’s these wretched liver chills.She’s always getting them. Women—”

Janet Spence, moreover, was a believer ineternal flames and spiritual attachments.

Mr. Hutton made a Cinquecento gesture, and kissed herextended hand.

Mr. Hutton bent his large form and darted into the car with the agility of an animal regaining itsburrow. 

“She was, alas! Fuit. We shall all be ‘was’ one of these days. Meanwhile.…”

The scientific appellation of the sea-mouse he was thinking, as he kissedthe throat she offered him, white and extended like the throat of a victim awaiting the sacrificialknife. The sea-mouse was a sausage with iridescent fur: very peculiar. Or was Doris the seacucumber,which turns itself inside out in moments of alarm?

Mrs. Hutton was lying on the sofa in her boudoir, playing Patience. 

Arrived at an impasse

Once, as anundergraduate

“My dear, I wouldn’t eat those red currants if I were you,” 

The submarine laughter was swelling,rising, ready to break the surface of silence and resound.