THE LAST LEAF

Value Points

1. The Last Leaf is a story of supreme sacrifice by an old artist Behrman.

2. Sue and Johnsy are two young artists. They share a small flat.
3. Johnsy suffers from pneumonia. She links her illness with the leaves of ivy creepers.
4. She has made up her mind that with the fall of the last leaf of the ivy creeper, she would also die.
5. Her illness is made worse by these negative thoughts. Medicines have no effect on her illness.
6. Sue, her best friend suggests to her that she should stop thinking negatively.
7. One night, it rains heavily and there was a storm also. Johnsy thinks that the last leaf would fall anytime and
she would also die with the fall of that leaf.
8. Johnsy peeps through the window to make herself sure that whether the last leaf fell or not. To her surprise,
she finds that the last leaf was still on the creeper when she woke up in the morning.
9. Sue tells Johnsy that the last leaf is quite green and healthy. It has not fallen.
10. Now Johnsy smiles and starts recovering her health soon.
11. Finally, sue discloses the truth of the last leaf. The last leaf on the ivy creeper is Behrman‟s Masterpiece. He
painted it last night when the last leaf fell from the ivy. He died of pneumonia the next morning.

SUMMARY
The Last Leaf is a touching story. It describes the sacrifice made by an old painter named Behrman. He
sacrificed his life to save a young girl-artist‟s life. Sue and Johnsy, two young friends and artists shared a small flat
that was on the third story of an old house. It was the month of November when Johnsy fell seriously ill. She was
afflicted by pneumonia. She simply lay in her bed and looked out of the window. This left her friend Sue worried,
so she called a doctor. The doctor visited every day but Johnsy‟s condition did not show any improvement. One
day the doctor told Sue that perhaps Johnsy was depressed and in the absence of her will to live, no medicine
could cure her. Johnsy was Sue‟s dear friend. So, she made sincere efforts to revive Johnsy‟s interest in life by
talking about clothes and fashion. Sadly, nothing worked. Then Sue brought her drawing board to Johnsy‟s room
and starte painting. She whistled while working so that Johnsy’s mind could be taken off her illness. Suddenly,
Sue heard Johnsy whispering. She rushed to her bed and heard that Johnsy was counting backwards while looking
out of the window. An anxious Sue looked out too and saw an old ivy creeper climbing half-way up the brick wall
opposite their window. The strong autumn wind was blowing outside and the creeper was shedding its leaves.
Sue asked Johnsy what she was counting. Johnsy replied that she was counting the leaves on the creeper which
were almost a hundred till three days ago but now only five were left. Sue said falling of leaves was normal since
it was autumn. However, Johnsy revealed her shocking fear that when the last leaf fell, she too would die. Sue
rubbished this idea and said that old ivy leaves had nothing to do with Johnsy‟s illness. But, Johnsy insisted
that she wanted to see the last leaf fall before it got dark and then sleep forever. Sue comforted Johnsy and begged
her not to look out of the window while she used the incoming light to finish a painting that would get
the money. Johnsy agreed on the condition that Sue would finish her painting soon and not make her wait further
to see the fall of the last leaf. Sue then told Johnsy that she had to paint an old miner and was going down to call
Behrman, their neighbour, to be her model. Behrman lived on the ground floor in the same building. He was a sixty-
year-old painter who had a lifelong dream to paint a masterpiece. Sue shared her worry with Behrman and told
how Johnsy was convinced about her death with the fall of the last leaf. Behrman accompanied Sue to her
apartment and the two of them walked silently into Johnsy‟s room. She was sleeping at that time, so the two of
them went to the next room and peeped out through the window. The creeper had only one leaf on it. It was
raining heavily and the icy-old wind was blowing. Behrman returned without saying anything.

Next morning, Johnsy woke up and asked Sue in a feeble voice to draw the curtains. A nervous Sue reluctantly drew
back the curtains but exclaimed when she looked at the creeper. She pointed out to Johnsy that there was still one
leaf left and it looked quite green and healthy. Johnsy said that she had heard the wind last night and was sure that
the leaf must have fallen. If it hadn‟t so far, then it would surely fall soon and she too would die. Sue tried to cheer
her up and asserted that she won‟t die and she must live for the sake of her friends. Johnsy smiled- weakly and
closed her eyes. She looked out of the window after every hour and every time found the leaf still there. Another
storm struck in the evening but the leaf did not fall. Johnsy looked at the leaf for a long time and then called Sue.
She admitted that she had not been good to her. Sue had looked after her so lovingly and she, in turn, had not
cooperated. The last leaf had shown her that she had been wicked. She had realized that it was a sin to wish to die.
Sue hugged Johnsy and then gave her lots of hot soup and a mirror. Johnsy combed her hair and smiled brightly.
The doctor came in the afternoon and after examining Johnsy told Sue that since Johnsy now had the will to live,
he was confident of her early recovery. Then he took leave to go downstairs and examine Behrman who too was
suffering from acute pneumonia. The next morning Sue came and sat on Johnsy’s bed and informed her that Mr.
Behrman was no more. He had died of pneumonia that morning after a brief illness of only two days. He was found
in his bed with wet clothes and shoes by the janitor. A ladder and a still lighted lantern were found near his bed.
There were also some brushes and green and yellow paints near the ladder. Sue told Johnsy to look out of the
window at the ivy leaf. She asked if she wondered why it didn’t flutter when the wind blew. The green and healthy
leaf was Behrman’s masterpiece that he had painted the previous night braving the icy winds and rain.

DAUGHTER

'Daughter' is written by Mumbai-based author Lata Jagtiani. In this story, he brings out the patriarchal system in
which females are less important in the family. It portrays inequality, gender bias, despite the laws. As the
technocrat died at the age of 78 after a prolonged illness, immediate family members reached the office of Sohrab
Saheb at the Oval to learn about the will. According to the will, Deepa of the technocrat, 26 years old, will be a
form of Reserve Bank of India. The rest of the estate will be divided equally among his sons. The
will was signed by Suresh Shyamdas Chhabria. Rakesh, Suresh's first born and other three sons walked towards the
door and Deepa was still looking at the beautiful Oval Maidan. The sky was cloudy and the pouring rain was
imminent. However, Maidan was bustling. A one-day cricket match was played, which was watched by Deepa. She
heard a loud cry for six floors, 'Out!! Out! 'As the umpire turned around to find the face for the deconstruction, the
whole team jumped for joy. The overweight man in a white coat and broad sun hat gently raised his right hand
between the loud shouts of joy and cheering. The crestfallen batsman began to walk away from the crease and
into the field, his head hanging down. Another enthusiastic batsman took the spot in the crease. He prepared
himself to face the bowler, but the bowler began to fall back, rubbing the hailstorm heavily on his lap, ready for
attack. Rakesh asks Deepa to accompany him but he refuses because he had to go to a travel agency. She was
anxiously watching the match. All four of them, the companions, will go back to their comfortable cabin. She now
remembers her past with her father, where Deepa had expressed her desire to join the office but her qualifications
did not qualify her. He had a post-graduate degree and a diploma in marketing management. All the brothers left
the office and knew about Sohrab Saheb Deepa's reflective mood. Once Suresh expressed his wish to Saheb to
fulfill his wish and thought that Deepa was working in the travel agency with a salary of ten thousand rupees a
month. Saheb remembered Surest. 'About his wife's death when he mentioned his daughter as Buddhapikalathi, a
walk-stick in old age. Saheb also desired a daughter in his life. Sahib and Suresh drank a glass of beer. Cash,
property, offices, cars, jewelery, farm houses, paintings - all are divided equally between the four sons. This valued
more than six crores, but only 7lakhs for Deepa. Sohrab did not sleep well that night. But, what to do? He’s helpless.
He first angrily dialed Deepa's cell number and then stopped. It was a breach of trust to tell her father's will. He
recalled his conversation with Suresh. Sahib thought of convincing Suresh about himself and giving Deepa a share.
In those days he was in the media campaign with Aurora, which occupied him from sunrise to sunset. He won the
case and became a media celebrity all night. Suresh's membership in the Turf Club suited him all. Suresh had
introduced him to the affected people, the right circles. There was no time to worry about Suresh's act. And now
it was too late. Thirty-year-old Deepa faced the window silently. There was a strange, unusual thing about Suresh,
overjoyed at the birth of his daughter and distributing sweets to each of his employees on three floors of his
company. But it seems that that cute baby died in his room. It was as if someone else was watching a straight
cricket match. He could hear the jubilant crying and the umpire again pointed the finger, Deepa questioned the
umpire's decision. Saheb agreed but gave importance to the umpire's decision. For the first time he met his eyes.
He could see no tears, no tension, no anxiety nor any grief. There was only an empty and airless place where light
and bliss once lived. He reminded her of a dry lake she once saw sedentary and empty. Deepa wanted to leave and
Saheb told her that her driver would leave her but she preferred to take a walk. She knew she would take the bus.
He occasionally saw her at a bus stop outside the NCPA. As Deepa spots Suresh with his granddaughter and
promises to take her out for a horse ride and eat ice cream. He made an excuse to his secretary and left office.
They sat in a quiet, air-conditioned car. The congestion was creepy. Five minutes later they reached Nariman Point.
The signal turned red. Next is a pile. He looked out of his window and saw the rain coming down on the sheets. He
saw a familiar man standing in a long line at the NCPA bus stop. She was looking hard at a book in her hand. She
had no triple or raincoat, and she forgot the rain. She kept looking at the book cover. The empty bus arrived, paused
and when it left she was the
only one left, still looking at her book. He saw that she was not crying from that distance. They were clouds of rain,
not tears.

THE PLOUGHMAN

SUMMARY& ANALYSIS
About the Poet
Kahlil Gibran was a Lebanese poet and philosopher. This book speaks everything about life: love, children, giving,
marriage, work, death, religion, joy, and sorrow. Okay, it speaks all things life – if that makes sense. ... He was on
the hill overlooking the sea and he saw his ship coming, and he was happy. Theme of the Prophet by Kahlil Gibran
Khalil Gibran believed that both the amazing and ugly aspects of life on Earth are to be embraced in order to
gain knowledge, truth, and harmony with the self and others.

Analysis of the Poem

A ploughman asks about Work, and AlMustafa replies that work helps one keep pace with the soul of the earth,
while the idle are strangers to the seasons and too proud to submit to the infinite. Work is not, as many say, a curse
and misfortune; it is the fulfillment of part of earth's dreams and shows one's love of life. Some say
birth is an affliction and the flesh a curse, but Mustafa counters that only the sweat of one's brow washes away
what is written. Some criticize the darkness and weariness of life, but AlMustafa objects that darkness creates a
blind urge for knowledge, attained only by work. Working with love binds people to themselves and to God.
Weavers should think of the beloved who will wear the cloth, builders of the beloved who will live in.

The Ploughman:
“You work that you may keep pace with the earth and
the soul of the earth.
For to be idle is to become a stranger unto the seasons,
and to step out of life’s procession, that marches in
majesty and proud submission towards the infinite.”
“When you work you are a flute through whose heart
the whispering of the hours turns to music.
Which of you would be a reed, dumb and silent, when
all else sings together in unison?”

Explanation:

Gibran mentions of the “the earth and the soul of the

earth” which relates to the self-sustaining world that we
live in. And that pace of the earth is to exist, to live and
survive.
Though human try will always be continually relentless in
our society’s search for never-ending progress and
development [“proud submission towards the infinite”],
every human being must learn to live in harmony with this
rhythm. The poem speaks about unity and accord, that
every aspect of human labor is collective in nature. One
can never achieve a goal without having the help of his
peers or his co-workers. Humans are social beings
attributed to its immense population and relative
responsibility of sustaining the needs of its race. In order
to survive, every human being must work in unanimity. In
the aspect of labor, productivity depends on the harmony
of social structures within a system.
“Always you have been told that work is a curse and

labour a misfortune.

But I say to you that when you work you fulfill a part of
earth’s furthest dream, assigned to you when that dream

was born,

And in keeping yourself with labour you are in truth

loving life,

And to love life through labour is to be intimate with

life’s inmost secret.

“But if you in your pain call birth an affliction and the

support of the flesh a curse written upon your brow, then
I answer that naught but the sweat of your brow shall

wash away that which is written.”

Explanation:-
A common misconception of work and labour is that it is always associated with hardship and physical stress. But
to the author, that misconception greatly depends on the perspective of the worker. In a spiritual sense, the author
mentions of a “dream” which can be translated as “one’s purpose of existence”. He said that “if one is
keeping himself with labour, then he is in truth loving life” which will therefore fulfill the “purpose of his existence”
[“fulfilling a part of earth’s furthest dream”]. Work therefore is an amount of effort applied to produce a deliverable
or to accomplish a task, not a state of burden or misfortune. And when one bears fruit of his own labour then one
shall acquire his own alleviation. [“The sweat of your brow shall wash away that which is written”]

“You have been told also that life is darkness, and in

your weariness you echo what was said by the weary.
And I say that life is indeed darkness save when there

is urge,

And all urge is blind save when there is knowledge,

And all knowledge is vain save when there is work,
And all work is empty save when there is love;
And when you work with love you bind yourself to
yourself, and to one another, and to God.”
“And what is it to work with love?
It is to weave the cloth with threads drawn from your
heart, even as if your beloved were to wear that cloth.
It is to build a house with affection, even as if your
beloved were to dwell in that house.
It is to sow seeds with tenderness and reap the harvest
with joy, even as if your beloved were to eat the fruit.
It is to charge all things you fashion with a breath of
your own spirit,
And to know that all the blessed dead are standing
about you and watching.”

Explanation:
Gibran conceivably implicated the most benign interactions of expression in this stanza where he contemplated
the importance of urge, knowledge, and love in one’s work. When one works with love one attaches himself to
himself, and to others, and to God. We all live in a spiritual, quasi-philosophical world that we always tend to
struggle for justification for our actions. We need a source of strength for our entire physical and spiritual skirmish
with life, and Gibran explains; we can achieve this if we bind our existence to ourselves, to others and to God. The
verse further explains symbolical relationships on the nature of one’s purpose of labor. That one must put all his
commitment and dedication on his work as if the outcome of his physical labor; the cloth that he weaved, the
house he built, the seeds he had sown and harvest, will all be for his beloved.
“Often have I heard you say, as if speaking in sleep,
“He who works in marble, and finds the shape of his
own soul in the stone, is nobler than he who ploughs
the soil.
And he who seizes the rainbow to lay it on a cloth in
the likeness of man, is more than he who makes the
sandals for our feet.”
But I say, not in sleep but in the over wakefulness of
noontide, that the wind speaks not more sweetly to the
giant oaks than to the least of all the blades of grass;
And he alone is great who turns the voice of the wind
into a song made sweeter by his own loving.”

Explanation:
Gibran attempts to define the state of equivalence of men in all labour. “He who works in marble, and finds the
shape of his own soul in the stone, is nobler than he who ploughs the soil.” He further explained that this realization
only exists “in sleep” or in a whimsical state of human thoughts, an actual misconception. He then turns to define
greatness as when “one who can turn the voice of the wind into a song made sweeter by his own loving.” When a
writer creates a masterpiece by committing himself to his work to help others to understand earns as much success
as when an inventor produces a machine that alleviates the welfare of people. Work will be defined by the
greatness of its worker not by its own greatness.

“Work is love made visible.

And if you cannot work with love but only with distaste,
it is better that you should leave your work and sit at the
gate of the temple and take alms of those who work with
joy.
For if you bake bread with indifference, you bake a bitter
bread that feeds but half man’s hunger.
And if you grudge the crushing of the grapes, your
grudge distils a poison in the wine.
And if you sing though as angels, and love not the
singing, you muffle man’s ears to the voices of the day
and the voices of the night.”

Explanation:
The prophet Almustafa, ends the poetic discussion on work that was started by a ploughman, by saying “Work is
love made visible...” The only way to conceive and
produce a good result of work or labor is when one puts his heart into it. Loving one’s work is one of the greatest
contentment a human being could ever feel. No one else could define this feeling not unless he commits himself
into it. By showing dedication, enthusiasm, devotion and loyalty, one’s physical work would bring peace and
contentment to himself, to his family and to the people around him. These are words to live by. Gibran’s words are
refreshingly nonsectarian yet feel none the less profound, timeless, universal and relevant to all cultures, peoples
and times. The profoundness of his truth is not gleaned until the words are read many times. Gibran teaches us to
celebrate life no matter what the circumstance is. We need to work in order to live. And as what he said, “Work is
love made visible...” just intricately suggest that to work is to love.

MY TEACHER
Summary
Helen Keller was born in Tuscumbia, Alabaman 27th June, 1880.Her father, Arthur H. Keller, was the editor for
the North Alabamian, and had fought in the Confederate Army during the American Civil War. At 19 months she
suffered "an acute congestion of the stomach and brain (probably scarlet fever)which left her deaf and blind.
Helen was a very bright child. She became very frustrated because shouldn’t talk. She became very angry and began
to throw temper tantrums. The family knew they had to do something to help her. The most important day she
remember in all her life is the one on which her teacher, Anne Mansfield Sullivan, came to her. She was filled with
wonder when she consider the immeasurable contrasts between the two lives which it connects. On the afternoon
of that eventful day, she stood on the porch, wondering, expectant and she guessed that something unusual was
about to happen, so she went to the door and waited on the steps. She did not know what future held of marvel
or surprise for her. She was like the ship at sea in a dense fog, when it seemed as if darkness shut you in, and you
waited with beating heart for something to happen. ‖Light! Give me light! was the wordless cry of her soul, and the
light of love shone. She felt approaching footsteps. The morning after her teacher came, she lead her into her room
and gave her a doll. Miss Sullivan slowly spelled into her hand the word―d-o-l-l.‖ She was at once interested in this
finger play and tried to imitate it. In the days that followed, she learned to spell in this uncomprehending way a
great many words. But her teacher had been with her several weeks before she understood that everything has a
name. Earlier in the day they had a tussle over the words ―m-u-g and w-a-t-e-r.‖ Miss Sullivan had tried to impress
upon her that m-u-g‖ is mug and that w-a-t-e-r‖ is water, but she persisted in confounding the two. She became
impatient at her repeated attempts. In the still, dark world in which she lived there was no strong sentiment or
tenderness. She felt her teacher sweep the fragments to one side of the heart, and she had a sense of satisfaction
that the cause of her discomfort removed. They walked down the path to the well-house, attracted by the
honeysuckle with which it was covered. Someone was drawing water and her teacher placed her hand under the
spout. As the cool stream gushed over one hand she spelled into the other word water, first slowly, then rapidly.
Suddenly Helen felt a misty consciousness as of something forgotten-a thrill of returning thought; and somehow
mystery of language was revealed to her. She knew that
w-a-t-e-r meant the wonderful cool something that was flowing over her hand. The living world awaken her soul,
gave it light, hope, joy set it free! She left the well-house eager to learn. Everything had a name, and each name
gave birth to a new thought. As they returned to the house every object which she touched seemed to quiver with
life. She learned a great many words that day. I do not remember what they all were; but I do know that mother,
father, sister, teacher were among them-words that were to make the world blossom to me. Everything has its
wonders, even darkness and silence, and she learn, whatever state she may be in, there in to be content.

Bookshop Memories
Summary
"Bookshop Memories" is an essay about his experience working in a second-hand bookshop in London. The
writer is at his sarcastic best in this one. He writes about snobs who are more interested in buying "first editions"
rather than literary works. He also writes about people who order books but never come to pick them up, oriental
students who haggle over the price of cheap textbooks, and women who were shopping for birthday gifts for their
nephews. He laments over the rarity of really bookish people. If book readers were rare in 1936 when the essay
was written, then now it must be like searching for an oasis in the Sahara or the Kalahari Desert.

Orwell starts off rather disdainfully by stating that barely 'ten percent of our customers knew a good book from a
bad one', listing 'first edition snobs', 'oriental students haggling' and 'vague-minded women' as some of the less
discerning customers. Well, I haven't seen many first edition snobs come into our shop - presumably they have
turned to the internet or more specialist shops to find their collectables. We do get a fair few foreign students, of
all nationalities, but this is mostly because there is a language school nearby, and so the students come to us for
their textbooks. They also never try and haggle - despite the sometimes fairly steep prices. As for 'vague-minded
women' - well there are plenty of these, but vague-minded men also. One curious thing about bookshops is that
the staff are often expected by the public to have a perfect database- like memory of the thousands of books in
print. Orwell's complaint of a 'dear old lady who read such a nice book in 1897, doesn't remember the title or
author but does remember that it had a red cover' is certainly a recognizable query. What is perhaps more
remarkable is that it is often possible, with a bit of effort and some new technology, to work out what the customer
is after. A further observation Orwell gives is the importance of Christmas: “we spend a feverish ten days struggling
with Christmas cards and calendars, which are tiresome things to sell but are good business while the season lasts”.
Ten days? The Christmas selling period is more like two months now. Orwell is right that it is important though, the
entire financial year is built around Christmas, during the run up to which sales can quadruple, and more. It's a sad
truth that more books are sold as gifts now than as personal purchases - even outside of Christmas many books
are sold as birthday, wedding and even christening presents - you can tell as much from when a single book is sold
in combination with a sheet of wrapping paper and a card. Many customers will even ask to borrow serotype so
that they can wrap it up on the spot! You have to wonder how many of these books - often glossy, coffee-table
items, are actually read. So big is the gift market that the book trade has its own national currency, book tokens,
for those that cannot choose an appropriate title. Further comments by Orwell that I can identify with are that
“lunatics tend to gravitate towards bookshops”, that “modern books for children are rather horrible things”
(though this isn't completely true), and that classics like Dickens are often bought but
seldom read. Orwell describes the irritating behaviour of bookshop customers - first edition snobs, oriental
students, vague minded women and "the kind of people who would be nuisance anywhere but have special
opportunities in a bookshop". The shop had various sidelines including typewriters, stamps for collectors,
horoscopes and Christmas novelties (Orwell was particularly amused by an invoice for these that included the
phrase "2 doz. Infant Jesus with rabbits"). However, the main sideline was the lending library, which to Orwell shed
a new light on readers: "In a lending library you see people's real tastes, not their pretended ones."
For Orwell, the book trade was a temporary job, but he considers what it is like as a career. The claim that, given a
small investment, “any educated person ought to be able to make a small secure living out of a bookshop” seems
a little off the mark - I wonder what my boss would say to that! Sadly, Orwell's claim that “the combines [chains]
can never squeeze the small independent bookseller out of existence” is also sadly no longer true. I work in an
independent shop, but it has done very well to prosper in a difficult market, where chains can demand bigger and
bigger discounts (margins). Reflected in it is a snobbery from Orwell (people read trash) and the customers who
buys a certain type of book to fill a bookshelf, but never intent to read. He is appalled by what is well read (Detective
Novels and Fem Porn – what has changed) and what is not (Shakespeare and Dickens). In this he saw a new side of
Orwell, and his disdain for the low brow literary public. He confessed if he kept his employment that he would have
lost his love of books to “paranoiac customers and dead blue bottles”. In conclusion, Orwell says that he would not
wish to be a bookseller full-time, mainly because it is a job that tends
to give one a distaste for books.

A CONVERSATION WITH A READER

Summary
All the popular authors must have had an experience of talking with the public who read their works. The author
once had an experience many years ago while travelling from Birmingham to London on the Great Western Railway.
He was in a third-class smoking carriage with a person, who looked like a commercial traveler. It was in the early
autumn and sunny weather. They will tell their friends. More copies will be sold. The world has changed its
complexion and my sun has risen at last. As these pleasing thoughts succeeded each other the man opposite put
down the volume with a sigh. He said he was just looking over the bookstall and thinks he must have taken it up by
mistake for another book. He picked up the book and pronounced the name wrong by looking at the cover. He said
painful words that were mentioned in the newspaper articles and became enthusiastic. It was only him who got
done from the train at Oxford. The author felt he was right. He accepted with affectation and a lack of interest in
all. The beauty of South England healed the author. The People whose books sell largely must have had an
experience of talking familiarly with the public who were reading one of my works. It was many years ago,
the author was travelling down from Birmingham to London on the Great Western Railway. He was in a third-class
smoking carriage with a person, who looked like a commercial traveler. It was in the early autumn and sunny
weather. It was one of his too numerous books of essays. They will read these books until their covers are worn
out, and then they will buy another copy. They will tell their friends. More copies will be sold. The world has
changed its complexion and my sun has risen at last. As these pleasing thoughts succeeded each other the man
opposite put down the volume with a sigh. He said he was just looking over the bookstall and thinks he must have
taken it up by mistake for another book. But he made a languid gesture, picked up the book again, looked at the
back, pronounced the name wrongly, and then threw the book down again. This time there was a note of bitterness
in his complaint. It was having spent a shilling on it that rankled. He picked up the book again and looked at the
title. All these words of his were painful ones. They were indeed newspaper articles. He mentioned several, to
repeat whose names would, I suppose. He suddenly became enthusiastic. This time it was all about a dear little
child. The train was slowing up for Oxford he got up, snapped his bag, and was evidently going to get out. No one
else got in at Oxford. The train did not stop before Paddington. The man was quite right. What with affectation in
one place and false rhetoric in another and slipshod construction in a third and a ghastly lack of interest in all. Soon
the beauty of South England healed this wound.