She could never escape.
There she was, placed before the clock-face of life. And if she turned
round as in a railway station, to look at the bookstall, still she
could see, with her very spine, she could see the clock, always the
great white clock-face. In vain she fluttered the leaves of books, or
made statuettes in clay. She knew she was not REALLY reading. She was
not REALLY working. She was watching the fingers twitch across the
eternal, mechanical, monotonous clock-face of time. She never really
lived, she only watched. Indeed, she was like a little, twelve-hour
clock, vis-a-vis with the enormous clock of eternity--there she was,
like Dignity and Impudence, or Impudence and Dignity.
The picture pleased her. Didn't her face really look like a clock
dial--rather roundish and often pale, and impassive. She would have got
up to look, in the mirror, but the thought of the sight of her own
face, that was like a twelve-hour clock-dial, filled her with such deep
terror, that she hastened to think of something else.
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