All the turnkeys rose to salute the thief-taker, whose habitually-sullen countenance looked gloomier than usual. She was too wrapped up in the sheer joy of playing again; it had 201 been intimate, masturbatory. But that other world, in spite of her resolute exclusion of it, was always looking round corners and peeping through chinks and crannies, and rustling and raiding into the order in which she chose to live, shining out of pictures at her, echoing in lyrics and music; it invaded her dreams, it wrote up broken and enigmatical sentences upon the passage walls of her mind. I felt somehow I’d hurt you. This is not what I want. She rehearsed the story of her forlorn long lost mother in her head, what she would say to the theorymongers. E.
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