Chapter 3

           Itwasarimymorning,andverydamp.Ihadseenthedamplyingontheoutsideofmylittlewindow,asifsomegoblinhadbeencryingthereallnight,andusingthewindowforapocket-handkerchief.Now,Isawthedamplyingonthebarehedgesandsparegrass,likeacoarsersortofspiders’webs;hangingitselffromtwigtotwigandbladetoblade.Oneveryrailandgate,wetlayclammy,andthemarshmistwassothick,thatthewoodenfingeronthepostdirectingpeopletoourvillageadirectionwhichtheyneveraccepted,fortheynevercametherewasinvisibletomeuntilIwasquitecloseunderit.Then,asIlookedupatit,whileitdripped,itseemedtomyoppressedconsciencelikeaphantomdevotingmetotheHulks.

           ThemistwasheavieryetwhenIgotoutuponthemarshes,sothatinsteadofmyrunningateverything,everythingseemedtorunatme.Thiswasverydisagreeabletoaguiltymind.

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