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29-Nov-2016 22:31

the thing to do was to pass the porches and the portals. It’s as your Ladyship likes an’ pleases, every time.

It, too, was caught and trying to tear itself free, the wind, like Absalom. But I can sit perfectly well under the porch, so please say no more about it.’ He looked at her again, with his wicked blue eyes. ‘Your Ladyship’s as welcome as Christmas ter th’ hut an’ th’ key an’ iverythink as is. An’ your Ladyship’d non want me tinkerin’ around an’ about when she was ’ere, all the time.’ She listened with a dim kind of amazement.

Then he rose, went for an old coop, and took it to the chopping log where he was working.

Crouching, he tried the bars; some broke in his hands; he began to draw the nails.

Constance sat down with her back to a young pine-tree, that swayed against her with curious life, elastic, and powerful, rising up. And she watched the daffodils turn golden, in a burst of sun that was warm on her hands and lap. It’s a thousand pities they ever happened.’ Connie was inclined to agree. ‘Even snails only eat them, and bees don’t ravish.’ She was angry with him, turning everything into words. She felt him recoil in his quick walk, when he saw her.

Even she caught the faint, tarry scent of the flowers. And then she noticed a narrow track between young fir-trees, a track that seemed to lead nowhere. She turned down it adventurously, between the thick young firs, which gave way soon to the old oak wood. I suppose he has an idea if he’s come down to the ranks again, he’d better speak as the ranks speak.’ ‘Why didn’t you tell me about him before? What was the good of discontented people who fitted in nowhere? ‘Thou still unravished bride of quietness,’ he quoted. Violets were Juno’s eyelids, and windflowers were on ravished brides. She stood up in the handbreadth of dryness under the rustic porch.

And you could put some in your room; wild daffs are always so cheerful-looking, aren’t they? ‘The world has grown pale with thy breath.’ But it was the breath of Persephone, this time; she was out of hell on a cold morning. I don’t in the least want to turn you out of your hut, thank you! She went quietly round to the back, where the bank rose up; she had an excuse, to see the daffodils. It was hardly making darkness among the oaks any more. But she was getting cold; yet the overwhelming inertia of her inner resentment kept her there as if paralysed. How ravished one could be without ever being touched. And they were there, the short-stemmed flowers, rustling and fluttering and shivering, so bright and alive, but with nowhere to hide their faces, as they turned them away from the wind. Ravished by dead words become obscene, and dead ideas become obsessions. ‘No, I only sat a few minutes in the shelter,’ she said, with quiet dignity. His recoil away from the outer world was complete; his last refuge was this wood; to hide himself there! ‘Do you think there is a second key to that little hut not far from John’s Well, where the pheasants are reared? Connie grew warm by the fire, which she had made too big: then she grew hot. ‘I don’t quite see her presiding at the tea-table.’ ‘Oh, there’s nothing sacrosanct about a silver tea-pot,’ said Connie.

And you could put some in your room; wild daffs are always so cheerful-looking, aren’t they? ‘The world has grown pale with thy breath.’ But it was the breath of Persephone, this time; she was out of hell on a cold morning. I don’t in the least want to turn you out of your hut, thank you!

She went quietly round to the back, where the bank rose up; she had an excuse, to see the daffodils. It was hardly making darkness among the oaks any more. But she was getting cold; yet the overwhelming inertia of her inner resentment kept her there as if paralysed. How ravished one could be without ever being touched.

And they were there, the short-stemmed flowers, rustling and fluttering and shivering, so bright and alive, but with nowhere to hide their faces, as they turned them away from the wind. Ravished by dead words become obscene, and dead ideas become obsessions. ‘No, I only sat a few minutes in the shelter,’ she said, with quiet dignity.

His recoil away from the outer world was complete; his last refuge was this wood; to hide himself there! ‘Do you think there is a second key to that little hut not far from John’s Well, where the pheasants are reared?

Connie grew warm by the fire, which she had made too big: then she grew hot. ‘I don’t quite see her presiding at the tea-table.’ ‘Oh, there’s nothing sacrosanct about a silver tea-pot,’ said Connie.

For Connie had got into the habit of sitting still by the fire, pretending to read; or to sew feebly, and hardly going out at all. ‘Seasons return, but not to me returns Day, or the sweet approach of Ev’n or Morn.’ And the keeper, his thin, white body, like a lonely pistil of an invisible flower! Little gusts of sunshine blew, strangely bright, and lit up the celandines at the wood’s edge, under the hazel-rods, they spangled out bright and yellow.