Monica Swinton, twenty-nine, of graceful shape and lambent eye, went and sat in her living room, arranging her limbs with taste. She began by sitting and thinking; soon she was just sitting. Time waited on her shoulder with the maniac slowth it reserves for children, the insane, and wives whose husbands are away improving the world.
I'm sitting on the stile, Mary, Where we sat side by side.
Spring is noticed, if at all By people sitting in railway trains.
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