It reminded me of the stiffness and curious
self-consciousness that comes over life in England on a Sunday. But the
Landlord sat with his waistcoat hanging open over his shirt,
pot-bellied, his ruined face leaning forward, talking, always talking,
wanting to know.
So in a few minutes I was out on the road again, thanking God for the
blessing of a road that belongs to no man, and travels away from
all men.
I did not want to see the Italians. Something had got tied up in me, and
I could not bear to see them again. I liked them so much; but, for some
reason or other, my mind stopped like clockwork if I wanted to think of
them and of what their lives would be, their future. It was as if some
curious negative magnetism arrested my mind, prevented it from working,
the moment I turned it towards these Italians.
I do not know why it was. But I could never write to them, or think of
them, or even read the paper they gave me though it lay in my drawer for
months, in Italy, and I often glanced over six lines of it. And often,
often my mind went back to the group, the play they were rehearsing, the
wine in the pleasant cafe, and the night.
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