I saw her float bob under, and started up, rushed to her, and taught her
how to strike and play it, though it turned out when landed to be
nothing but a tiny barbel: but she was in ecstasies, holding it on her
palm, murmuring her fond coo.
She re-baited, and we lay again. I said:
'But what a life: no exit, no light, no prospect, no hope--'
'Plenty of _hope_!' says she.
'Good Heavens! hope of what?'
'I knew vely well that something was lipening over the cellar, or under,
or alound it, and would come to pass at a certain fixed hour, and that I
should see it, and feel it, and it would be vely nice.'
'Ah, well, you had to wait for it, at any rate. Didn't those twenty
years seem _long_?'
'No--at least sometimes--not often. I was always so occupied.'
'Occupied in doing what?'
'In eating, or dlinking, or lunning, or talking.'
'Talking to your_self_?'
'Not myself.'
'To whom, then?'
'To the one who told me when I was hungly, and put the dates to satisfy
my hunger.
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