She could not see clearly. She looked more than her sixty odd years, in spite of a still lush head of black hair, streaked with a little grey, which was visible under her cap and of immediate interest to Gerald. The intense darkness added to the terror of the storm. Why shouldn’t we be martyrs? There’s nothing else for most of us, anyhow. I have often felt before that it is only when one has nothing to say that one can write easy poetry.
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