A thing there was that mattered a thing, wreathed about with chatter, defaced, obscured in her own life, let drop every day in corruption, lies, chatter. They (all day she had been thinking of Bourton, of Peter, of Sally), they would grow old. They went on living (she would have to go back the rooms were still crowded people kept on coming). She had once thrown a shilling into the Serpentine, never anything more. But why had he done it? And the Bradshaws talked of it at her party! There he lay with a thud, thud, thud in his brain, and then a suffocation of blackness. Up had flashed the ground through him, blundering, bruising, went the rusty spikes. He had killed himself-but how? Always her body went through it first, when she was told, suddenly, of an accident her dress flamed, her body burnt. And they talked of it at her party-the Bradshaws, talked of death. What business had the Bradshaws to talk of death at her party? A young man had killed himself. The party’s splendour fell to the floor, so strange it was to come in alone in her finery.
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