fore? A quiet  ted.

    Don’t imagine t I o LIVE in Lo planning to desert art life under a different name. t kind of t o stop me slipping doo Lower Binfield and .?

    I seemed to  all planned out in my mind already. It ill t in t secret pile of mine, and you can able  a fortnig or September. But if I made up some suitable story— relative dying of incurable disease, or somet to give me my e o myself before  s, no noise of traffic driving you silly—just a ening to tness?

    But o go back to Loo do here?

    I didn’t mean to do anyt  of t. I ed peace and quiet. Peace! e  once, in Loold you somet our old life t pretending it . I dare say it urnips, if you like. But turnips don’t live in terror of t lie a nig t slump and t self  ill be toroug-place. I ed to get back t for a  t soak into me. It  like one of tern sages retiring into a desert. And I siring into t during t fe’ll be like time in ancient Rome t old Porteous elling me about,  ting list for every cave.

    But it  t I ed to ced to get my nerve back before times begin. Because does anyone  t time coming? e don’t even kno’ll be, and yet ’s coming. Per t it’ll be someto to t face t kind of t t feeling inside you. t’s gone out of us in ty years since t’s a kind of vital juice t ed ail t. All to and fro! Everlasting scramble for a bit of casing din of buses, bombs, radios, telepo bits, empty places in our bones o be.

    I s door. t of going back to Loles ick t and fill t gulp before topuses. e’re all stifl