Now At Last I Know Why I

Love Was A Terrible Thing. You Poisoned It And Stabbed At It And Knocked It Down Into The Mud - Well Down - And It Got Up And Staggered On, Bleeding And Muddy And Awful. Like - Like Rasputin.

The Rumble Of The Life Outside Was Like The Sound Of The Sea Which Was Rising Gradually Around Her.

I Am Empty Of Everything. I Am Empty Of Everything But The Thin, Frail Ghosts In My Room.

For The First Time She Had Dimly Realized That Only The Hopeless Are Starkly Sincere And That Only The Unhappy Can Either Give Or Take Sympathy--even Some Of The Bitter And Dangerous Voluptuousness Of Misery.

One Realized All Sorts Of Things. The Value Of An Illusion, For Instance, And That The Shadow Can Be More Important Than The Substance. All Sorts Of Things.