grievance sticking in it,her dismissal from school during the War-poor embittered unfortunate creature!For it was not her one hated but the idea of her,which undoubtedly had gathered in to itself a great deal that was not Miss Kilman;had become one of those spectres with which one battles in the night;one of those spectres who stand astride us and suck up half our life-blood,dominators and tyrants;for no doubt with another throw of the dice,had the black been uppermost and not the white,she would have loved Miss Kilman!But not in this world.No. It rasped her,though,to have stirring about in her this brutal monster! to hear twigs cracking and feel hooves planted down in the depths of that leaf-encumbered forest,the soul;never to be content quite,or quite secure,for at any moment the brute would be stirring,this hatred,which, especially since her illness,had power to make her feel scraped,hurt in her spine;gave her physical pain,and made all pleasure in beauty, in friendship,in being well,in being loved and making her home delightful rock,quiver,and bend as if indeed there were a monster grubbing at the roots,as if the whole panoply of content were nothing but self love!this hatred! Nonsense,nonsense!she cried to herself,pushing through the swing doors of Mulberry's the florists. She advanced,light,tall,very upright,to be greeted at once by button-faced Miss Pym,whose hands were always bright red,as if they had been stood in cold water with the flowers. There were flowers:delphiniums,sweet peas,bunches of lilac;and carnations,masses of carnations.There were roses;there were irises. Ah yes-so she breathed in the earthy garden sweet smell as she stood talking to Miss Pym who owed her help,and thought her kind,for kind she had been years ago;very kind,but she looked older,this year,turning her head from side to side among the irises and roses and nodding tufts of lilac with her eyes half closed,snuffing in,after the street uproar, the delicious scent,the exquisite coolness.And then,opening her eyes, how fresh like frilled linen clean from a laundry laid in wicker trays the roses looked;and dark and prim the red carnations,holding their heads up;and all the sweet peas spreading in their bowls,tinged violet,snow white,pale-as if it were the evening and girls in muslin frocks came out to pick sweet peas and roses after the superb summer's day,with its almost blue-black sky,its delphiniums,its carnations,its arum lilies was over;and it was the moment between six and seven when every flower-roses,carnations,irises,lilac-glows;white,violet,red, deep orange;every flower seems to burn by itself,softly,purely in the 77 grievance sticking in it, her dismissal from school during the War—poor embittered unfortunate creature! For it was not her one hated but the idea of her, which undoubtedly had gathered in to itself a great deal that was not Miss Kilman; had become one of those spectres with which one battles in the night; one of those spectres who stand astride us and suck up half our life-blood, dominators and tyrants; for no doubt with another throw of the dice, had the black been uppermost and not the white, she would have loved Miss Kilman! But not in this world. No. It rasped her, though, to have stirring about in her this brutal monster! to hear twigs cracking and feel hooves planted down in the depths of that leaf-encumbered forest, the soul; never to be content quite, or quite secure, for at any moment the brute would be stirring, this hatred, which, especially since her illness, had power to make her feel scraped, hurt in her spine; gave her physical pain, and made all pleasure in beauty, in friendship, in being well, in being loved and making her home delightful rock, quiver, and bend as if indeed there were a monster grubbing at the roots, as if the whole panoply of content were nothing but self love! this hatred! Nonsense, nonsense! she cried to herself, pushing through the swing doors of Mulberry's the florists. She advanced, light, tall, very upright, to be greeted at once by button-faced Miss Pym, whose hands were always bright red, as if they had been stood in cold water with the flowers. There were flowers: delphiniums, sweet peas, bunches of lilac; and carnations, masses of carnations. There were roses; there were irises. Ah yes—so she breathed in the earthy garden sweet smell as she stood talking to Miss Pym who owed her help, and thought her kind, for kind she had been years ago; very kind, but she looked older, this year, turning her head from side to side among the irises and roses and nodding tufts of lilac with her eyes half closed, snuffing in, after the street uproar, the delicious scent, the exquisite coolness. And then, opening her eyes, how fresh like frilled linen clean from a laundry laid in wicker trays the roses looked; and dark and prim the red carnations, holding their heads up; and all the sweet peas spreading in their bowls, tinged violet, snow white, pale—as if it were the evening and girls in muslin frocks came out to pick sweet peas and roses after the superb summer's day, with its almost blue-black sky, its delphiniums, its carnations, its arum lilies was over; and it was the moment between six and seven when every flower—roses, carnations, irises, lilac—glows; white, violet, red, deep orange; every flower seems to burn by itself, softly, purely in the