Even the abstract paintings on the wall were gray. There were moments when she doubted whether the whole mass of movements and societies and gatherings and talks was not simply one coherent spectacle of failure protecting itself from abjection by the glamour of its own assertions. She walked down the station approach, past the neat, obtrusive offices of the coal merchant and the house agent, and so to the wicket-gate by the butcher’s shop that led to the field path to her home. There were always parrots and parrakeets screaming in the fruit groves. "Where am I?" she cried, passing her hand across her brow. Now then," he added more calmly, "I am ready to die.
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