By Virginia Woolf
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Additional info for Flush: A Biography
Then she could make him stand together with her in entrance of the looking-glass and ask him why he barked and trembled. was once now not the little brown puppy contrary himself? yet what's “oneself”? Is it the item humans see? Or is it the item one is? So Flush reflected that question too, and, not able to resolve the matter of fact, pressed towards omit Barrett and kissed her “expressively. ” That used to be genuine at any cost. clean from such difficulties, with such emotional dilemmas agitating his fearful approach, he went downstairs, and we can't be stunned if there has been something—a contact of the supercilious, of the superior—in his bearing that roused the craze of Catiline, the savage Cuba bloodhound, in order that he set upon him and bit him and despatched him howling upstairs to overlook Barrett for sympathy. Flush “is no hero,” she concluded; yet why was once he no hero? used to be it no longer partially on her account? She used to be too simply to not notice that it was once for her that he had sacrificed his braveness, because it was once for her that he had sacrificed the solar and the air. This fearful sensibility had its drawbacks, no doubt—she used to be jam-packed with apologies whilst he flew at Mr. Kenyon and bit him for stumbling over the bell-pull; it was once tense while he moaned piteously all evening simply because he used to be now not allowed to sleep on her bed—when he refused to consume except she fed him; yet she took the blame and bore the inconvenience simply because, in the end, Flush enjoyed her. He had refused the air and the sunlight for her sake. “He is worthy loving, is he now not? ” she requested of Mr. Horne. And no matter what resolution Mr. Horne may supply, pass over Barrett was once optimistic of her personal. She enjoyed Flush, and Flush was once beneficial of her love. It appeared as though not anything have been to damage that tie—as if the years have been in basic terms to compact and cement it; and as though these years have been to be the entire years in their usual lives. Eighteen-forty-two become eighteen-forty-three; eighteen-forty-three into eighteen-forty-four; eighteen-forty-four into eighteen-forty-five. Flush was once not a dog; he was once a puppy of 4 or 5; he used to be a puppy within the complete major of life—and nonetheless leave out Barrett lay on her couch in Wimpole highway and nonetheless Flush lay at the couch at her toes. pass over Barrett’s lifestyles was once the lifetime of “a fowl in its cage. ” She occasionally saved the home for weeks at a time, and while she left it, it used to be just for an hour or , to force to a store in a carriage, or to be wheeled to Regent’s Park in a bath-chair. The Barretts by no means left London. Mr. Barrett, the seven brothers, the 2 sisters, the butler, Wilson and the maids, Catiline, Folly, leave out Barrett and Flush all went on dwelling at 50 Wimpole road, consuming within the dining-room, dozing within the bedrooms, smoking within the learn, cooking within the kitchen, sporting hot-water cans and emptying the slops from January to December. The chair-covers grew to become a little bit dirty; the carpets somewhat worn; coal airborne dirt and dust, dust, soot, fog, vapours of cigar smoke and wine and meat amassed in crevices, in cracks, in materials, at the tops of picture-frames, within the scrolls of carvings. And the ivy that hung over leave out Barrett’s bed room window flourished; its eco-friendly curtain turned thicker and thicker, and in summer time the nasturtiums and the scarlet runners rioted jointly within the window-box.