She hated the warm room.

The poem would be made up of many poems. It would last a long time,
through the winter and on into the spring. As long as it lasted she would
be happy. She would be free from the restlessness and the endless idiotic
reverie of desire.


IX.

"From all blindness of heart; from pride, vain-glory and hypocrisy; from
envy, hatred, and malice, and all uncharitableness,

"_Good Lord, deliver us_."

Mary was kneeling beside her mother in church.

"From fornication, and all other deadly sin--"

Happiness, the happiness that came from writing poems; happiness that
other people couldn't have, that you couldn't give to them; happiness
that was no good to Mamma, no good to anybody but you, secret and
selfish; that was your happiness. It was deadly sin.

She felt an immense, intolerable compassion for everybody who was
unhappy. A litany of compassion went on inside her: For old Dr. Kendal,
sloughing and rotting in his chair; for Miss Kendal; for all women
labouring of child; for old Mrs. Heron; for Dorsy Heron; for all
prisoners and captives; for Miss Louisa Wright; for all that were