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world go on turning, turning. It is horrible. I want to do a miracle
like Joshua and stop the whirl until I have fought it out. At home--It's
impossible."
Mr. Hoopdriver stroked his moustache. "It IS so," he said in a
meditative tone. "Things WILL go on," he said. The faint breath of
summer stirred the trees, and a bunch of dandelion puff lifted among the
meadowsweet and struck and broke into a dozen separate threads against
his knee. They flew on apart, and sank, as the breeze fell, among the
grass: some to germinate, some to perish. His eye followed them until
they had vanished.
"I can't go back to Surbiton," said the Young Lady in Grey.
"
EIGH?" said Mr. Hoopdriver, catching at his moustache. This was an
unexpected development.
"I want to write, you see," said the Young Lady in Grey, "to write Books
and alter things. To do Good. I want to lead a Free Life and Own myself.
I can't go back. I want to obtain a position as a journalist. I have
been told--But I know no one to help me at once. No one that I could
go to. There is one person--She was a mistress at my school. If I could
write to her--But then, how could I get her answer?"
"
H'mp," said Mr. Hoopdriver, very grave.
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