nd I o get fed up .
After I’d soaped myself all over I felt better and lay doo t my seventeen quid and o spend it on. ternatives, it seemed to me, quietly aurned on some more er and eps t lead to t mug. tic stamping outside and then a yell of agony.
‘Dadda! I wanna come in!’
‘ell, you can’t. Clear out!’
‘But dadda! I wanna go somewhere!’
‘Go somew. I’m h.’
‘Dad-DA! I wanna GO SOME—hERE!’
No use! I kne partially dry as quickly as I could. As I opened ttle Billy—my youngest, aged seven—s past me, dodging t I discovered t my neck ill soapy.
It’s a rotten to gives you a disgusting sticky feeling, and t, aicky for t of t doairs in a bad temper and ready to make myself disagreeable.
Our dining-room, like ttle place, fourteen feet by t’s ten, and ty decanters and tand t , doesn’t leave muceapot, in ate of alarm and dismay because t tter lig it ly cold. I bent do a matco t to tle sidelong glance t sravagant.
y-nine, and s very tual brooding, a trick of , like an old gypsy of foreseeing disasters. Only petty disasters, of course. As for ions, stention to tter is going up, and ts are , and talment due on t’s any. Ss e pleasure out of rocking o and fro , and glooming at me, ‘But, George, it’s very SERIOUS! I don’t knoo DO! I don’t knoo realize IS!’ and so on and so fort’s fixed firmly in to t mind it a quarter as muc sy.
tairs already, ligo keep anyone else out of t to t table t o tune of ‘Yes, you did!’ ‘No, I didn’t!’ ‘Yes, you did!’ ‘No, I didn’t!’ and looked like going on for t of til I told to c. t’s a peculiar feeling t I o deal of time I can ick t of tion, it’s just unbearable. t t dreary bread-and-butter age op marks in Frenc otimes, especially feeling. Sometimes I’ve stood over ts, on summer evenings ’s given me t feeling you read about in t says your bo sucimes I feel t I’m just a kind of dried-up seed-pod t doesn’t matter t my sole importance o bring tures into t t’s only