"Because we're upset
enough as it is, and your poor mother most distracted, without
you're cutting loose as usual and driving everybody crazy."
I sat up in bed, forgetful that the window was now open for
the night, and that I was visable from the Gray's in my _robe de
nuit_.
"Whose distracted about what?" I asked.
But Hannah would say no more, and left me a pray to doubt
and fear.
Alas, Hannah was right. There was something wrong in the
house. Coming home as I had done, full of the joy of no rising
bell or French grammar, or meat pie on Mondays from Sunday's
roast, I had noticed nothing.
I fear I am one who lives for the Day only, and as such I
beleive that when people smile they are happy, forgetfull that
to often a smile conceals an aching and tempestuous Void within.
Now I was to learn that the demon Strife had entered my
domacile, there to make his--or her--home. I do not agree with
that poet, A. J. Ryan, date forgoten, who observed:
_Better a day of strife_
_Than a Century of sleep_.
Although naturaly no one wishes to sleep for a Century, or
even approxamately.
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