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334 pages, Hardcover
First published January 1, 1941
They were like two Chinese boxes, one inside the other, leading to an infinity of other boxes, to an infinity of purpose. Alone, he was yet not alone, uniting as he did the themes of so many other lives.
She saw very few people now. She had the baby brought downstairs and left on the hearthrug, where she played with him. Soon he was walking across the room. It all happened logically enough, in what had become the smooth, dull, colourless passage of time. She did not expect events, or events themselves, in such environment, became eventless and accepted. It was with no great sense of discovery that she found she was going to have a second child. This was the inevitable outcome of a settled relationship. Whatever the discrepancies in taste, their separate ways, she was Willy’s wife. There were the nights he spent beside her in her bed.
He no longer questioned the emotional crises with which Hildegard’s life seemed swept. Dusk and his own feelings, the scent of ivy on a wall and the pulse in his own throat, announced a rightness in her sentiments. He was overflowing with a sentimental devotion, that he wanted to, had somehow to express. Remembering Werther, he had a suspicion that this was probably a Great Love.
Her daughter this first day made her breathless, uncertain of herself, full of considerations, almost as if it were a first maid, certainly not her daughter. And the hair, the heavy, black fringe, drenching the shore of the white face, was new, done in this different way. It was strange how intimidating the mere physical changes could be.