The ditch by the roadside ran out and seized him by the ankle, and he fell forward into a dry bed of leaves, which began to sway back and forth determinedly. Charles knew that he would soon be sick; but his mind remained clear and unimpeded. The bed of leaves rolled completely over him, yet in the midst of his physical wretchedness he felt a new elation, a new freedom. He had inside him a few pints of liquid, and possibly a few undigested scraps of his last meal, eaten many hours earlier. In a minute or two he would get rid of them.

And I a whore, abtwisting what I love.

Could he not, just as easily, cast up and be rid of his class, his milieu, his insufferable load of presuppositions and reflexes? He climbed to his feet again, and stood for a moment staring up into the spinning centre of the sky that gyrated above him.

Love eye and twist her and what I abhor.

Why should it not end here, and he be reborn, entering the world anew, to no other music than the chirping of the crickets and his own retching?

II

II

The wash-leather made a pleasant noise, half slosh and half squelch, as Charles dipped it in the pail of water and then wrung it out. The feel of it in his hand varied greatly with its condition: slippery when it was wet, and tenacious, almost corky, when it was dry. He went over the panes once more, this time with the dry wash-leather. Then he dropped the wash-leather into the pail, and left it there while he took a dry duster out of the pocket of his overalls, and gave the panes a final polish. The hot sun, beating directly on to the glass, dried up the last traces of moisture and showed how clear and transparent it had become. The windows were really clean.

That was the lot. The last window of the last house he was going to do that morning. And as it was Saturday, that meant that work was over for the week. He had worked, he had earned his living for a whole week! His heart gave a great leap of joy as he climbed backwards down the ladder, holding the pail expertly in his left hand. He seemed to have been doing it all his life: per­haps, in all but a literal sense, that was true. His life had only really begun a week ago. Until then he had merely been an off­shoot, an appendage, a post-script, to the lives of several other people. This new life was really his own.