Marie.

October. She is little and grey with periwinkle—I feel inclined to write peritwinkle—blue eyes and swift, sweeping gestures. Annette said she is “une personne très supérieure—la veuve d'un cocher,” and “qu'elle a son appartement à Nice…. Mais, que voulez-vous? La vie est si chère. On est forcé.” But Marie does not look like any of these imposing, substantial things. She is far too gay, too laughing, too light, to have ever been more than a feather in the coachman's hat. As to an appartement, I suspect it was a chair at a window which overlooked a market.

Throttling, strangling by the throat, a helpless, exhausted little black silk bag.

But one says not a word and to the best of one's belief gives no sign. I went out into the gentle rain and saw the rainbow. It deepens; it shone page 158 down into the sea and it faded: it was gone. The small gentle rain fell on the other side of the world. Frail—Frail. I felt Life was no more than this.