Was the glass death was between us coming to the woman first, hundreds of So fine, so rare, coolly sunkīeneath the surface the beam I sought always burnt behind the glass. Spun darkness for a wandering beam of sun. Oh, was that the buried treasure?Ī moment later the light had faded. Silence the wood pigeon drew its bubble of sound. The shadow of a thrush crossed the carpet from the deepest wells of Yet, the moment after, if the door was opened, spread about theįloor, hung upon the walls, pendant from the ceiling–what? My hands wereĮmpty. If they moved in the drawing room, the apple only turned its The window panes reflected apples, reflected roses all the leaves were green The garden still as ever, only the book had slipped into the grass.īut they had found it in the drawing room. "Perhaps it's upstairs then?" The apples were in the loft. "Whatĭid I come in here for? What did I want to find?" My hands were empty. They've found it, " one would be certain, stopping the pencil on the margin.Īnd then, tired of reading, one might rise and see for oneself, the houseĪll empty, the doors standing open, only the wood pigeons bubbling withĬontent and the hum of the threshing machine sounding from the farm. "They're looking for it they'reĭrawing the curtain," one might say, and so read on a page or two. "Quietly," theyīut it wasn't that you woke us. Went, hand in hand, lifting here, opening there, making sure–a ghostly WHATEVER HOUR you woke there was a door shutting. New York: Harcourt, Brace, and Company, Inc.ĬONTENTS A Haunted House A Society Monday or Tuesday An Unwritten Novel The String Quartet Blue & Green Kew Gardens The Mark on the Wall MONDAY OR TUESDAY Eight Stories VIRGINIA WOOLF New York: Harcourt, Brace, and Company, Inc., 1921 Reprinted New York: Dover Publications, 1997. Monday or Tuesday by Virginia Woolf (1882-1941).
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