Now go. Third period was Art, where they sat side by side at a table and carved linoleum for block prints together. Her fanciful imagination no longer drew pictures of the aunt in the doorway of a wooden house, her arms extended in welcome. The spinsters—who on the morrow would vanish out of the girl's life for ever—had already left their imprint upon her imagination. Too much, perhaps. Women are hypocrites to the last—true only to themselves. Disillusion stands in one doorway of our house and Mockery in the other. "Got the rooms mixed. Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg. Of course she had taken the boy as her lover, acting as his muse.
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