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Interlude A grainy Fog dampens my senses & slows the wheels of the borrowed trap. No landscape passes to demonstrate my progress, even the front half of the horse uncertain. The road starts up, stony or bare, only just beneath his hooves. This is the way to Matlock, hamlet of thy birth Lucy now much reduced in numbers. I stop in the lane. The great mist, which granted a single roadside fern, a single speckled rock, now lifts its skirts around the stone church. The notion overcomes me that it is like my Project, clear and sensible at its base and aspiring to delicate extensions, obscure in the dense atmosphere. I walk about the church completely, as if to find someone; I believe I go about, although I feel neither gay nor sad, vigorous nor fatigued, unsure that I breathe or walk, as if this day is apart from my life and I shall have no memory of it tomorrow. 33 ...

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