He will have it that I’ve taken leave of my senses. The grate was full of fluttering ashes of burnt paper, and the easy chair near the fire had evidently been used. But she made a pretence of struggling a little, for it would be out of character for her not to do so and she did not want to arouse his suspicions. He turned irresolutely to the table upon which lay the scattered leaves of his old manuscripts. She released her clutch on it as, dizzy with exhaustion, she leaned against the back of the pew and closed her eyes, her fingers grasping out automatically for support. The stretch of red dirt disappeared into a stretch of trees like Van Gogh’s painting. I rather want them. “Ruin me? For what? Posterity? How could you ruin me, Lucy? What on earth are you talking about?” He got up and began to pace the room. ’ Gerald shrugged. The expression, however, which would chiefly have interested a beholder, was that of settled and profound melancholy. This species of madness cannot properly be attributed to his illness, though its accent might be. So long as they're about, I'll always be rewriting them and wasting my time.
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