It again becomes clear to our Lane that the real and normal
consist solely of herself, her houses, and their muck-heaps.
22
The house, lingering on after its wealth has vanished, stands by the
wayside like a madman with a patched rag over his back.
Day after day scars it with spiteful scratches, and rainy months leave
their fantastic signatures on its bared bricks.
In a deserted upper room one of a pair of doors has fallen from rusty
hinges; and the other, widowed, bangs day and night to the fitful gusts.
One night the sound of women wailing came from that house. They mourned the
death of the last son of the family, a boy of eighteen, who earned his
living by playing the part of the heroine in a travelling theatre.
A few days more and the house became silent, and all the doors were locked.
Only on the north side in the upper room that desolate door would neither
drop off to its rest nor be shut, but swung to and fro in the wind like a
self-torturing soul.
After a time children's voices echo once more through that house.
Pages:
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84