I imagine these nameless, these immaculate people, watching me from behind bushes. That is the corner of the cupboard; that is the nursery looking-glass. The leaves flap black wings over us. But they do not succeed. The bird flies; the flower dances; but I hear always the sullen thud of the waves; and the chained beast stamps on the beach. Sharp stripes of shadow lay on the grass, and the dew dancing on the tips of the flowers and leaves made the garden like a mosaic of single sparks not yet formed into one whole. My huge box bends George's bandy-legs even wider. The branches heave up and down. I shall follow her, Neville.
Things are huge and very small. Soon I fail, unless talked to. He will like me better than Susan or Rhoda. I do not want people, when I come in, to look up with admiration. The tree "shades the window with green fingers". The bee now hums round the head of the great Doctor. But already these are not school fields; these are not school hedges; the men in these fields are doing real things; they fill carts with real hay; and those are real cows, not school cows. Now taking her lump of chalk she draws figures, six, seven, eight, and then a cross and then a line on the blackboard. The great horses of the phantom riders will thunder behind me and stop suddenly. Some will dash themselves against the cliffs. Now they twist their copy-books, and, looking sideways at Miss Hudson, count the purple buttons on her bodice. Her nails meet in the ball of her pocket-handkerchief. But I cannot write. I am a boy in a grey flannel suit. They make little boys sob in dark passages. He is like a dangling wire, a broken bell-pull, always twangling. The waves rise; their crests curl; look at the lights on the mastheads. But by some inscrutable law of my being sovereignty and the possession of power will not be enough; I shall always push through curtains to privacy, and want some whispered words alone. I look up, through the trees, into the sky. At last we are on the top of the moor. I have to bang my head against some hard door to call myself back to the body. Humming vaguely, skimming widely, it is settled now on the carnation. He will leave my letters lying about among guns and dogs unanswered. Look, there is the chest of drawers. But soon that will cease. I hate the wind-bitten shrubs and the sanitary tiles. Here is another day, here is another day, I cry, as my feet touch the floor.
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What Does It Do? - Coke Vs Teeth Experiment
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