Not that she objected to solitude. Quite the contrary. She had books, thank Heaven, quantities of books. All sorts of books.

Of course she had some pathetic illusions about herself or she would not be able to go on living.

Some must cry so that others may be able to laugh the more heartily. Sacrifices are necessary.

What you take to be hyprocrisy is sometimes a certain caution, sometimes genuine, though ponderous, childish, sometimes a mixture of both.

After all this, what happened? What happened was that, as soon as I had the slightest chance of a place to hide in, I crept into it and hid. Well, sometimes it's a fine day isn't it? Sometimes the skies are blue. Sometimes the air is light, easy to breathe. And there is always tomorrow.

Next week, or next month, or next year I will kill myself. But I might as well last out my month's rent, which has been paid up.

They say when trouble comes close ranks, and so the white people did.