Hadn't she better wait
till she could collect and arrange her thoughts?
The silver clock upon her desk struck six. It had been a gift from her
father when she was at Girton. It never obtruded. Its voice was a faint
musical chime that she need not hear unless she cared to listen. She
turned and looked at it. It seemed to be a little face looking back at
her out of its two round, blinkless eyes. For the first time during all
the years that it had watched beside her, she heard its quick, impatient
tick.
She sat motionless, staring at it. The problem, in some way, had
simplified itself into a contest between herself, demanding time to
think, and the little insistent clock, shouting to her to act upon blind
impulse. If she could remain motionless for another five minutes, she
would have won.
The ticking of the little clock was filling the room. The thing seemed
to have become alive--to be threatening to burst its heart. But the
thin, delicate indicator moved on.
Suddenly its ticking ceased. It had become again a piece of lifeless
mechanism.
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