And yet it was just by giving herself up that she seemed
to glimpse sometimes her own inwardness. And these bleak revelations
saddened her. But she savoured her sadness. It was the wine of life
to her. And for her sadness she scorned herself, and in her conscious
scorn she recovered her self-respect.
It is doubtful whether the people of southern England have even yet
realised how much introspection there is going on all the time in the
Five Towns.
Visible from the window of the Wrackgarths' parlour was that colossal
statue of Commerce which rears itself aloft at the point where Oodge
Lane is intersected by Blackstead Street. Commerce, executed in glossy
Doultonware by some sculptor or sculptors unknown, stands pointing her
thumb over her shoulder towards the chimneys of far Hanbridge. When I
tell you that the circumference of that thumb is six inches, and the
rest to scale, you will understand that the statue is one of the prime
glories of Bursley. There were times when Emily Wrackgarth seemed to
herself as vast and as lustrously impressive as it. There were other
times when she seemed to herself as trivial and slavish as one of
those performing fleas she had seen at the Annual Ladies' Evening Fete
organised by the Bursley Mutual Burial Club.
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