She
discovered so many reasons for not making the little journey of a
hundred yards. On Sunday the 'common people' were in the streets; on
Saturday it was cleaning-day and the Pension smelt of turpentine;
Monday was for letter-writing, and other days were too hot or too
cold, too windy or too wet. In the end she accomplished her heart's
desire. Madame Cornu, who kept the grocer's shop, and lived on the
floor below with her husband, prepared the two principal meals and
brought them up to her on a tray. She ate them alone. Her breakfast
cup of tea she made herself, Mme. Cornu putting the jug of milk
outside the door. She nursed her bitter grievance against life in
utter solitude. Acidity ate its ugly pattern into her heart.
The children, as in duty bound, made dolorous pilgrimages to that
upper floor from time to time, returning frightened, and Mother went
regularly twice a week, coming home saddened and distressed. Her
husband rarely went at all now, since the time when she told him to
his face he came to taunt her. She spent her time, heaven only knows
how, for she never left the building. According to Mother she was
exceedingly busy doing nothing. She packed, unpacked, and then
repacked all her few belongings. In summer she chased bees in her room
with a wet towel; but with venom, not with humour.
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