‘Ah. I’m not discussing Shakespeare. The skies became brilliant; the dry monsoon was setting in. They were sharp and dripping with black blood. “It seems so unfair,” she said, “to take all you offer me and give so little in return. To divide the agony into two spheres so that one would mitigate the other. Then one old crone, short-sighted and shaky-handed, called Ann Veronica “dearie,” and made some remark, obscure and slangy, of which the spirit rather than the words penetrated to her understanding. Why didn’t I die? Why does God hate me so? Why does He not want me? I didn’t die because I’m weak, because I am cursed! I hate this poisoned world! But most of all. The assemblage was for the most part, if not altogether, composed of persons to whom vice in all its aspects was too familiar to present much of novelty, in whatever form it was exhibited.
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