Capitolo 36
is not his/her chair anymore; and she looked on the room as if
is neither his nor the same house neither anything anymore anything else other than her
taken care of more for.
First than their evening you/they had ended hanging the presents on the
Tree; but then an interruption had followed: his/her children had broken
profanely in on them, lacerating the veil of the mysteries of house; and
from more than a hour the night was abandoned to them. Now the
children were dormant above, while already dreaming Christmas morning and
the rush for the stockings. The servants had ended their job and
you/he/she had gone out to their quarters in the enclosure. The doors of the house
it was closed. There would not be now more intrusion, anybody possible
interruption; every year was to satisfy them him and--alone. For the Life
it is the playwright master: when its unknown tragedies are ready to send forth
them, all superfluous peer the stage; it is the
essential two who fill him/it! And as small the rest of the world never
feel of what happens among the two!
A small time before he had left the room with the footstep-staircase; when
he returned, he was to bring him the manuscript--the silent one
snowfall of knowledge for which you/he/she was deepening around him a
per annum. The time had already passed for him to return, but he didn't do
comes. It was anything in the forecast of the night that has done there him
hesitation? Was you/he/she tightening himself/herself/itself--the psychiatrist of _him_? You put away the thought
as a strange burst of the injustice.
As anchors was out of the house with the snow to fall! As he/she anchors
among! You started to feel the ticking of the old calm clock under
the stairway out in the room--always calm, always calm. And
then she started to listen to the proper messy hits of her
heart--that red Clock in the Tower of the body whose pulsations are expeditious outside
along the roads and alleys of the blood; of who law has to be
hurts alternatively too much fast from the fingers of Joy, too much slow from the
fingers of the Pain; and of who fate, if it once unloaded, never