But that other world, in spite of her resolute exclusion of it, was always looking round corners and peeping through chinks and crannies, and rustling and raiding into the order in which she chose to live, shining out of pictures at her, echoing in lyrics and music; it invaded her dreams, it wrote up broken and enigmatical sentences upon the passage walls of her mind. The rest she meant to keep for her immediate necessities. It may not be just, it may not be fair, but things are so. But we're neglecting the punch all this time. Loneliness. “What a beautiful mare’s nest!” she exclaimed.
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