The End Of Secrecy Would Be The

Come Back, Come Back To Me

A Person Is, Among All Else, A Material Thing, Easily Torn And Not Easily Mended.

At That Moment, The Urge To Be Writing Was Stronger Than Any Notion She Had Of What She Might Write.

She Sleepwalked From Moment To Moment, And Whole Months Slipped By Without Memory, Without Bearing The Faintest Imprint Of Her Conscious Will.

She Had Lolled About For Three Years At Girton With The Kind Of Books She Could Equally Have Read At Home--jane Austen, Dickens, Conrad, All In The Library Downstairs, In Complete Sets. How Had That Pursuit, Reading The Novels That Others Took As Their Leisure, Let Her Think She Was Superior To Anyone Else?