A piece of old blanket was fastened across her shoulders, and she had no other clothing except a petticoat. But that other world, in spite of her resolute exclusion of it, was always looking round corners and peeping through chinks and crannies, and rustling and raiding into the order in which she chose to live, shining out of pictures at her, echoing in lyrics and music; it invaded her dreams, it wrote up broken and enigmatical sentences upon the passage walls of her mind. The wind blew in fitful gusts, and scattered the yellow leaves from the elms and horse-chestnuts. She could not judge its direction, and began to move swiftly along the bookshelves, her hand running behind her across the spines of the calfbound volumes. About many of these houses hung a mysterious taint as of something weakly and commonly and dustily evil; the women who negotiated the rooms looked out through a friendly manner as though it was a mask, with hard, defiant eyes. We smirk, and we’re a bit—furtive. . We have only those phantoms called memories, which are the husks of dreams.
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