Explore "Deadlock" by Dorothy M. Richardson on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
When they emerged from the dusty shabbiness of the Euston Road it was suddenly a perfect June morning. Now was the moment. She opened the letter unnoticed, with her eyes on the sunlit park-lined vista... "London owes much to the fact that its main thoroughfares run east and west; walk westward in the morning down any one of them, or in the afternoon towards the east and whenever the sun shines you will see"... and without arousing his attention hurriedly read the few lines. Was that man still in London, trying to explain it to himself, or had he been obliged to go away, or perhaps to die? London is heaven and can't be explained. To be sent away is to be sent out of heaven.
"I've been telling," useless words, coming thin and helpless out of darkness and pressing against darkness... a desperate clutching at a borrowed performance to keep alive and keep on... "my employers what I think of them just lately."