第67部分

請關閉瀏覽器的閱讀/暢讀/小說模式並且關閉廣告遮蔽過濾功能，避免出現內容無法顯示或者段落錯亂。

d　Winifred；

before　this　deadness　had　e　upon　her；　this　pitiless

transplanting。　But　even　her　memories　were　the　work　of　her

imagination。

She　dreamed　of　him　and　her　as　they　had　been　together。　She

could　not　dream　of　him　progressively；　of　what　he　was　doing　now；

of　what　relation　he　would　have　to　her　now。　Only　sometimes　she

wept　to　think　how　cruelly　she　had　suffered　when　he　left

her……ah；　how　she　had　suffered！　She　remembered　what

she　had　written　in　her　diary：

〃If　I　were　the　moon；　I　know　where　I　would　fall　down。〃

Ah；　it　was　a　dull　agony　to　her　to　remember　what　she　had　been

then。　For　it　was　remembering　a　dead　self。　All　that　was　dead

after　Winifred。　She　knew　the　corpse　of　her　young；　loving　self；

she　knew　its　grave。　And　the　young　living　self　she　mourned　for

had　scarcely　existed；　it　was　the　creature　of　her

imagination。

Deep　within　her　a　cold　despair　remained　unchanging　and

unchanged。　No　one　would　ever　love　her　now……she　would　love

no　one。　The　body　of　love　was　killed　in　her　after　Winifred；　there

was　something　of　the　corpse　in　her。　She　would　live；　she　would　go

on；　but　she　would　have　no　lovers；　no　lover　would　want　her　any

more。　She　herself　would　want　no　lover。　The　vividest　little　flame

of　desire　was　extinct　in　her　for　ever。　The　tiny；　vivid　germ　that

contained　the　bud　of　her　real　self；　her　real　love；　was　killed；

she　would　go　on　growing　as　a　plant；　she　would　do　her　best　to

produce　her　minor　flowers；　but　her　leading　flower　was　dead

before　it　was　born；　all　her　growth　was　the　conveying　of　a　corpse

of　hope。

The　miserable　weeks　went　on；　in　the　poky　house　crammed　with

children。　What　was　he