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The subject line is Virginia Woolf's description of the town of Lewes in her diary on 15 November 1940. In that entry, she also wrote:
72 years later, of course, one reads the last sentence knowing that Virginia will walk into the Ouse four months later.
On the opposite end of the spectrum, I have been doing battle with the rain-rust on one of my dining room curtain panels. Neither vinegar or detergent are vanquishing the streaks, and I haven't worked up the nerve to try eHow's advice to use an iron (it's counterintuitive enough that I'd like to see it seconded by another source before I risk it).
Coventry almost destroyed. The usual traffic last night. All the hounds on their road to London. A bad raid there. When I am not writing fiction this fact seeps in. The necessity of living in the upper air. Then I tidied my room & threw masses on the potato box for Louie [the housekeeper]. This also revives. I am a mental specialist now. I will enjoy every single day.
72 years later, of course, one reads the last sentence knowing that Virginia will walk into the Ouse four months later.
On the opposite end of the spectrum, I have been doing battle with the rain-rust on one of my dining room curtain panels. Neither vinegar or detergent are vanquishing the streaks, and I haven't worked up the nerve to try eHow's advice to use an iron (it's counterintuitive enough that I'd like to see it seconded by another source before I risk it).
