Maldon had been acquainted with all their
footfalls. They were tragic to Rachel; they infected her with the most
recondite horror of existence; they left tragedy floating behind them
in the lane like an invisible but oppressive cloud. Their utterly
incurious indifference to Rachel in her peignoir at the window was
somehow harrowing.
The dank lane and vaporous, stagnant landscape were once more dead and
silent, and would for a long time remain so, for though potters begin
work early, colliers begin work much earlier, living in a world of
customs of their own. At last a thin column of smoke issued magically
from a chimney down to the left. Some woman was about; some woman's
day had opened within that house. At the thought of that unseen woman
in that unknown house Rachel could have cried. She could not remain at
the window. She was unhappy; but it was not her woe that overcame her,
for if she was unhappy, her unhappiness was nevertheless exquisite.
It was the mere realization that men and women lived that rendered her
emotions almost insupportable. She felt her youth. She thought, "I am
only a girl, and yet my life is ruined already." And even that thought
she hugged amorously as though it were beautiful.
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