Her sadness was manageable only because she was so familiar with its phases, because she could observe its moods remotely, like an astronomer studying the moon. Here was a hole as wide as a church-door. As usual Brendon lit the candles, and Sydney dragged out the spiritlamp and set it going. Wood, who looks after her comforts, and visits her constantly. He recognized the handwriting, and turned a shade paler. Spurlock. Go off and live together—until we can marry. “No! No no no no no no no!” She ran towards them, her arms outstretched, but he blocked her. Even in her own sorry skin-and-bones state of wraithlike pallor and gray under eye circles she was drawing unwanted attention from would-be admirers. "You are a paragon of prudence and discretion," rejoined the woollen-draper, drawing his chair closer to hers. She had no idea what she should do. Essentially the talk was a mixture of fragments of sentences heard, of passages read, or arguments indicated rather than stated, and all of it was served in a sauce of strange enthusiasm, thin yet intense. “Here we are,” he said, “shining through each other like light through a stained-glass window. Perhaps Gerald was not as clothheaded as he had thought. She saw her life before her robbed of all generous illusions, the wrappered life unwrappered forever, vistas of dull responses, crises of makebelieve, years of exacting mutual disregard in a misty garden of fine sentiments.
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