You didn't want to go on living when Mark died. Yet you went on. As if
Mark had never died…. And if Mamma died you'd go on—in your illusion.
If it is an illusion I'd rather know it.
How can I know? There isn't anybody here who can tell me. Nobody you could believe if they told you—I can believe myself. I've burnt everything I've written that was bad.
You believe yourself to-day. You believed yesterday. How do you know you'll believe to-morrow?
To-morrow—
V.
Aunt Lavvy had come to stay.
When she came you had the old feeling of something interesting about to happen. Only you knew now that this was an illusion.
She talked to you as though, instead of being thirty-three, you were still very small and very young and ignorant of all the things that really mattered. She was vaguer and greyer, more placid than ever, and more content with God.
Impossible to believe that Papa used to bully her and that Aunt Lavvy had revolted.