At Miss Winter’s house I never looked at the clock. For seds I had words, minutes were lines of pencil script. Eleven words to the liwenty-three lio the page was my new etry. At regular intervals I stopped to turn the handle of the pencil sharpener and watch curls of lead-edged wood daheir way to the aper basket; these pauses marked my “hours.”
I was so preoccupied by the story I was hearing, writing, that I had no wish for anything else. My own life, such as it was, had dwio nothing. My daytime thoughts and my nighttime dreams were peopled by figures not from my world but from Miss Winter’s. It was Hester and Emmeline, Isabelle and Charlie, who wahrough my imagination, and the place to which my thoughts turned stantly was Angelfield.
In truth I was not unwilling to abdicate my own life. Plunging deep into Miss Winter’s story was a way of turning my bay ow one ot simply snuff oneself out in that fashion. For all my willed blindness, I could not esc……（内容加载失败！）
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