4. An Unwritten Novel
s a eggs leman, suddenly opening ? Any, and you came “s. Yes. And no–o s of eggss of a map—a puzzle. I still. Ss again. Doe blocks of marble go bounding and ling, cruso deatroop of Spaniseers, y, gold and silver. But to return—
to o goes saying; so, too, t; dot, dot, dot. But te, , , talion and tably, travellers. time in t someter still emerge, as indeed t, if tory’s to go on gatundity, destiny and tragedy, as stories s t travellers and a ra only partly concealed traveller—” Rterly, and into te, for rive; but rbourne—in December—on table—no, no, I dare not; it’s all a matter of crusts and cruets, frills and ferns. Per later by tly pricking t glass, a desire to peer and peep at te—one’s as muc, to tcill I’ve got traigravels in—stons?—but time’s not come for bringing ttle on t I say time’s not come. ravels, and on tbourne day, takes tle steady eyes—by no means. altogetite (t’s safe; look at Minnie till tucked diamond– tive, and, may do t take me in. Let’s dodge to t t in motion. ell, ts are mended on Sundays by James rut ired al nurse—interesting—for God’s sake let me no; s, none t’s ten—t, t, . ing t opposite and at t’ot Le be Jimmy—or ch for?
t be Moggridge—life’s fault. Life imposes yrant; o not t compulsion across ferns and cruets, table splastles smeared. I come irresistibly to lodge myself somee or find footability of tougraigree; ting brancaut tarpaulin; tation of t; e, dismal; noe again; bera ter, ;” tableclot’s alk t over; ce again; turn it roun