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Chapter 17

           Everythingseemedright.Justnow(butthiscannotlast,shethought,dissociatingherselffromthemomentwhiletheywerealltalkingaboutboots)justnowshehadreachedsecurity;shehoveredlikeahawksuspended;likeaflagfloatedinanelementofjoywhichfilledeverynerveofherbodyfullyandsweetly,notnoisily,solemnlyrather,foritarose,shethought,lookingatthemalleatingthere,fromhusbandandchildrenandfriends;allofwhichrisinginthisprofoundstillness(shewashelpingWilliamBankestooneverysmallpiecemore,andpeeredintothedepthsoftheearthenwarepot)seemednowfornospecialreasontostaytherelikeasmoke,likeafumerisingupwards,holdingthemsafetogether.Nothingneedbesaid;nothingcouldbesaid.Thereitwas,allroundthem.Itpartook,shefelt,carefullyhelpingMr.Bankestoaspeciallytenderpiece,ofeternity;asshehadalreadyfeltaboutsomethingdifferentoncebeforethatafternoon;thereisacoherenceinthings,astability;something,shemeant,isimmunefromchange,andshinesout(sheglancedatthewindowwithitsrippleofreflectedlights)inthefaceoftheflowing,thefleeting,thespectral,likearuby;sothatagaintonightshehadthefeelingshehadhadoncetoday,already,ofpeace,ofrest.Ofsuchmoments,shethought,thethingismadethatendures.

           "Yes,"sheassuredWilliamBankes,"thereisplentyforeverybody."

           "Andrew,"shesaid,"holdyourplatelower,orIshallspillit."(TheBOEUFENDAUBEwasaperfecttriumph.)

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