The cottage began to look secret to me, the half-drawn shades at the
upper windows suggesting the oblique glances of partially veiled eyes. And the
rooms, now that they saw no more social life, developed a queer private life of
their own. Often, when I opened a door, I would get the impression of wild
activity just arrested, as though the different objects around me had only that
moment dashed back to their usual places, where they were waiting impatiently
for my departure, so that they could go on with their own affairs. I used to
tell myself that one day I’d find out what they were up to by flinging open the
door so suddenly that they’d be caught unawares.
Anna Kavan, Guilty, 22.
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