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by the vulgarity of Low Covey, by the grossness which seemed to revel in poverty and dirt. But when she cast her eyes round her own bare walls, looked at her sheetless bed, a shiver ran over her. 'These are my people,' she said aloud. The candle, clamouring for the snuffers, guttered, sank low, nearly went out. Shivering again before the omen, she trimmed the wick. She returned the book to Farwell by slipping it on the table next day. He took it without a word but returned at half past six as before. 'Well?' he asked with a faint smile. 'Thank you so much,' said Victoria. 'It's wonderful.' 'Wonderful indeed? Most commonplace, don't you think?' 'Oh, no,' said Victoria. 'It's extraordinary, it's like . . . like light.' Farwell's eyes suddenly glittered. 'Ah,' he said dreamily, 'light! light in this, the outer darkness.' Victoria looked at him, a question in her eyes. 'If only we could all see,' he went on. 'Then, as by a touch of a magician's wand, flowers would crowd out the thistles, the thistles that the asses eat and thank their God for. It is in our hands to make this the Happy Valley and we make it the Valley of the Shadow of Death.' He paused for a moment. Victoria felt her pulse quicken. 'Yes,' she said, 'I think I understand. It's because we don't understand that we suffer. We're not cruel, are we? we're stupid.' 'Stupid?' A ferocious intonation had come into Farwell's voice. 'I should say so! Forty million men, women and children sweat their lives out day by day so that four million may live idly and become too heavy even to think. I could forgive them if they thought, but the world contains only two types: Lazarus with poor man's gout and Dives with fatty degeneration of the brain.' Victoria felt nervous. Passion shook the man's hands as he clutched the marble top of the table. 'Mr Farwell,' she faltered, 'I don't want to be stupid. I want to understand things. I want to know why we slave twelve hours a day when others do nothing and, oh, can it be altered?' Farwell had started at the mention of his name. His passion had suddenly fallen. 'Altered? oh, yes,' he stammered, 'that's if the race lasts long enough. 'Sometimes I think, as I see men struggling to get on top of one another, like crabs in a bucket . . . Like crabs in a bucket,' he repeated dreamily, visualising the simile. 'But I cannot draw men from stones,' he said smiling; 'it is not yet time for Deucalion. I'll b
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