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It’s been a dark cold day, not even a winter’s gleam of sun; and now it’s raining outside. The curtains are drawn and both paraffin stoves are lit. Now the room is dark, and on the ceiling two gently-flickering patterns of gold-red light from the heaters, and the gas fire is a red glow whose fierceness has no power to penetrate the cold further than a few inches from the bars of the fire.
I have been sitting looking at the new pretty notebook, handling it and admiring it. Saul has scribbled in the front of it in pencil, without my seeing, the old schoolboy’s curse:
He shall be cursed,
It made me laugh, so that I nearly went upstairs and gave it to him. But I will not, I will not, I will not. I’ll pack away the blue notebook with the others. I’ll pack away the four notebooks. I’ll start a new notebook, all of myself in one book.
[Here the blue notebook ended with a heavy double black line.]
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