After half an hour she began to feel tired—she wasn’t used to weariness so early in the day. She leant against the wall and it scorched her shoulder-blades. She felt no resentment at all at being there, looking after things: the word ‘play’ had no meaning to her at all—the whole of life was adult. In one of Henry Beckley’s early reading-books there had been a picture of a doll’s tea-party: it was incomprehensible like a ceremony she hadn’t learned: she couldn’t see the point of pretending.
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