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Saint's Progress

a year ago. She had a bath and went to bed the moment she got in.
Lying there nibbling chocolate and smoking a cigarette, she luxuriated in the weariness which had stilled her dreadful restlessness. Watching the smoke of her cigarette curl up against the sunset glow which filled her window, she thought: `If only I could be tired out like this every day!' She would be all right then, would lose the feeling of not knowing what she wanted, of being in a sort of large box, with the lid slammed down, roaming round it like a dazed and homesick bee in an overturned tumbler; the feeling of being only half alive, of having a wing maimed so that she could only fly a little way, and must then drop.
She slept like a top that night. But the next day's work was real torture, and the third not much better. By the end of the week, however, she was no longer stiff.
Saturday was cloudless; a perfect day. The field she was working in lay on a slope. It was the last field to be cut, and the best wheat yet, with a glorious burnt shade in its gold and the ears blunt and full. She had got used now to the feel of the great sheaves in her arms, and the binding wisps drawn through her hand till she held them level, below the ears, ready for the twist. There was no new sensation in it now; just steady, rather dreamy work, to keep her place in the row, to the swish-swish of the cutter and the call of the driver to his horses at the turns; with continual little pauses, to straighten and rest her back a moment, and shake her head free from the flies, or suck her finger, sore from the constant pushing of the straw ends under. So the hours went on, rather hot and wearisome, yet with a feeling of something good being done, of a job getting surely to its end. And gradually the centre patch narrowed, and the sun slowly slanted down.
When they stopped for tea, instead of running home as usual, she drank it cold out of a flask she had brought,

travel books:
where is HTML where is HEAD where is TITLE a year ago. She had a bath and went to bed what is moment she got in. Lying there nibbling chocolate and smoking a cigarette, she luxuriated in what is weariness which had stilled her dreadful restlessness. Watching what is smoke of her cigarette curl up against what is sunset glow which filled her window, she thought: `If only I could be tired out like this every day!' She would be all right then, would lose what is feeling of not knowing what she wanted, of being in a sort of large box, with what is lid slammed down, roaming round it like a dazed and homesick bee in an overturned tumbler; what is feeling of being only half alive, of having a wing maimed so that she could only fly a little way, and must then drop. She slept like a top that night. But what is next day's work was real torture, and what is third not much better. By what is end of what is week, however, she was no longer stiff. Saturday was cloudless; a perfect day. what is field she was working in lay on a slope. It was what is last field to be cut, and what is best wheat yet, with a glorious burnt shade in its gold and what is ears blunt and full. She had got used now to what is feel of what is great sheaves in her arms, and what is binding wisps drawn through her hand till she held them level, below what is ears, ready for what is twist. There was no new sensation in it now; just steady, rather dreamy work, to keep her place in what is row, to what is swish-swish of what is cutter and what is call of what is driver to his horses at what is turns; with continual little pauses, to straighten and rest her back a moment, and shake her head free from what is flies, or suck her finger, sore from what is constant pushing of what is straw ends under. So what is hours went on, rather hot and wearisome, yet with a feeling of something good being done, of a job getting surely to its end. And gradually what is centre patch narrowed, and what is sun slowly slanted down. When they stopped for tea, instead of running home as usual, she drank it cold out of a flask she had brought, where is meta name="keywords" content="old books, Free book , free book offer , free audio books , free coloring book pages , free book reports , free audio book , audio books free download , book free , free guest book , books free , free book summaries , download free audio books , free childrens books." where is where are they now rel="stylesheet" type="text/css" href="../../style.css" where is meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=iso-8859-1" where is BODY bgColor=#ffffff text="#000000" where are they now ="#000000" v where are they now ="#FF0000" where is div align="center" where is strong where is strong where is a href="http://www.aaoldbooks.com" Books > where is a href="../default.asp" title="Book" Old Books > where is strong where is a href="default.asp" Saint's Progress (1935) where is table width="700" border="1" align="center" cellpadding="15" cellspacing="0" where is center where is tr where is td width="160" align="center" valign="top" where is div align="center" where is td align="center" valign="top" where is div align="left" where is div align="center" where is p align="left" Page 276 where is p align="center" where is strong Saint's Progress where is p align="justify" a year ago. She had a bath and went to bed the moment she got in. Lying there nibbling chocolate and smoking a cigarette, she luxuriated in what is weariness which had stilled her dreadful restlessness. Watching what is smoke of her cigarette curl up against what is sunset glow which filled her window, she thought: `If only I could be tired out like this every day!' She would be all right then, would lose what is feeling of not knowing what she wanted, of being in a sort of large box, with what is lid slammed down, roaming round it like a dazed and homesick bee in an overturned tumbler; what is feeling of being only half alive, of having a wing maimed so that she could only fly a little way, and must then drop. She slept like a top that night. But what is next day's work was real torture, and what is third not much better. By what is end of what is week, however, she was no longer stiff. Saturday was cloudless; a perfect day. what is field she was working in lay on a slope. It was what is last field to be cut, and what is best wheat yet, with a glorious burnt shade in its gold and what is ears blunt and full. She had got used now to what is feel of what is great sheaves in her arms, and what is binding wisps drawn through her hand till she held them level, below what is ears, ready for what is twist. There was no new sensation in it now; just steady, rather dreamy work, to keep her place in what is row, to what is swish-swish of what is cutter and what is call of what is driver to his horses at what is turns; with continual little pauses, to straighten and rest her back a moment, and shake her head free from what is flies, or suck her finger, sore from the constant pushing of what is straw ends under. So what is hours went on, rather hot and wearisome, yet with a feeling of something good being done, of a job getting surely to its end. And gradually the centre patch narrowed, and what is sun slowly slanted down. When they stopped for tea, instead of running home as usual, she drank it cold out of a flask she had brought, where is Server.Execute("_SiteMap.asp") % travel books: Saint's Progress (1935) books

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