minmarn/Gone_with_the_wind · Datasets at Hugging Face

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with those who loved her.

"I'm sorry I was cross," she said, speaking with difficulty. "It's
just that I--I'm sorry I was cross, Auntie. I'm going out on the
porch for a minute. I've got to be alone. Then I'll come back and
we'll--"

She patted Aunt Pitty and went swiftly by her to the front door,
knowing if she stayed in this room another minute her control would
crack. She had to be alone. And she had to cry or her heart would
break.

She stepped onto the dark porch and closed the door behind her and
the moist night air was cool upon her face. The rain had ceased
and there was no sound except for the occasional drip of water from
the eaves. The world was wrapped in a thick mist, a faintly chill
mist that bore on its breath the smell of the dying year. All the
houses across the street were dark except one, and the light from a
lamp in the window, falling into the street, struggled feebly with
the fog, golden particles floating in its rays. It was as if the
whole world were enveloped in an unmoving blanket of gray smoke.
And the whole world was still.

She leaned her head against one of the uprights of the porch and
prepared to cry but no tears came. This was a calamity too deep
for tears. Her body shook. There still reverberated in her mind
the crashes of the two impregnable citadels of her life, thundering
to dust about her ears. She stood for a while, trying to summon up
her old charm: "I'll think of all this tomorrow when I can stand
it better." But the charm had lost its potency. She had to think
of two things, now--Melanie and how much she loved and needed her;
Ashley and the obstinate blindness that had made her refuse to see
him as he really was. And she knew that thoughts of them would
hurt just as much tomorrow and all the tomorrows of her life.

"I can't go back in there and talk to them now," she thought. "I
can't face Ashley tonight and comfort him. Not tonight! Tomorrow
morning I'll come early and do the things I must do, say the
comforting things I must say. But not tonight. I can't. I'm
going home."

Home was only five blocks away. She would not wait for the sobbing
Peter to harness the buggy, would not wait for Dr. Meade to drive
her home. She could not endure the tears of the one, the silent
condemnation of the other. She went swiftly down the dark front
steps without her coat or bonnet and into the misty night. She
rounded the corner and started up the long hill toward Peachree
Street, walking in a still wet world, and even her footsteps were
as noiseless as a dream.

As she went up the hill, her chest tight with tears that would not
come, there crept over her an unreal feeling, a feeling that she
had been in this same dim chill place before, under a like set of
circumstances--not once but many times before. How silly, she
thought uneasily, quickening her steps. Her nerves were playing
her tricks. But the feeling persisted, stealthily pervading her
mind. She peered about her uncertainly and the feeling grew, eerie
but familiar, and her head went up sharply like an animal scenting
danger. It's just that I'm worn out, she tried to soothe herself.
And the night's so queer, so misty. I never saw such thick mist
before except--except!

And then she knew and fear squeezed her heart. She knew now. In a
hundred nightmares, she had fled through fog like this, through a
haunted country without landmarks, thick with cold cloaking mist,
peopled with clutching ghosts and shadows. Was she dreaming again
or was this her dream come true?

For an instant, reality went out of her and she was lost. The old
nightmare feeling was sweeping her, stronger than ever, and her
heart began to race. She was standing again amid death and
stillness, even as she had once stood at Tara. All that mattered
in the world had gone out of it, life was in ruins and panic howled
through her heart like a cold wind. The horror that was in the
mist and was the mist laid hands upon her. And she began to run.
As she had run a hundred times in dreams, she ran now, flying
blindly she knew not where, driven by a nameless dread, seeking in
the gray mist for the safety that lay somewhere.

Up the dim street she fled, her head down, her heart hammering, the
night air wet on her lips, the trees overhead menacing. Somewhere,
somewhere in this wild land of moist stillness, there was a refuge!
She sped gasping up the long hill, her wet skirts wrapping coldly
about her ankles, her lungs bursting, the tight-laced stays
pressing her ribs into her heart.

Then before her eyes there loomed a light, a row of lights, dim and
flickering but none the less real. In her nightmare, there had
never been any lights, only gray fog. Her mind seized on those
lights. Lights meant safety, people, reality. Suddenly she
stopped running, her hands clenching, struggling to pull herself
out of her panic, staring intently at the row of gas lamps which
had signaled to her brain that this was Peachtree Street, Atlanta,
and not the gray world of sleep and ghosts.

She sank down panting on a carriage block, clutching at her nerves
as though they were ropes slipping swiftly through her hands.

"I was running--running like a crazy person!" she thought, her body
shaking with lessening fear, her thudding heart making her sick.

with those who loved her.

"I'm sorry I was cross," she said, speaking with difficulty. "It's

just that I--I'm sorry I was cross, Auntie. I'm going out on the

porch for a minute. I've got to be alone. Then I'll come back and

we'll--"

She patted Aunt Pitty and went swiftly by her to the front door,

knowing if she stayed in this room another minute her control would

crack. She had to be alone. And she had to cry or her heart would

break.

She stepped onto the dark porch and closed the door behind her and

the moist night air was cool upon her face. The rain had ceased

and there was no sound except for the occasional drip of water from

the eaves. The world was wrapped in a thick mist, a faintly chill

mist that bore on its breath the smell of the dying year. All the

houses across the street were dark except one, and the light from a

lamp in the window, falling into the street, struggled feebly with

the fog, golden particles floating in its rays. It was as if the

whole world were enveloped in an unmoving blanket of gray smoke.

And the whole world was still.

She leaned her head against one of the uprights of the porch and

prepared to cry but no tears came. This was a calamity too deep

for tears. Her body shook. There still reverberated in her mind

the crashes of the two impregnable citadels of her life, thundering

to dust about her ears. She stood for a while, trying to summon up

her old charm: "I'll think of all this tomorrow when I can stand

it better." But the charm had lost its potency. She had to think

of two things, now--Melanie and how much she loved and needed her;

Ashley and the obstinate blindness that had made her refuse to see

him as he really was. And she knew that thoughts of them would

hurt just as much tomorrow and all the tomorrows of her life.

"I can't go back in there and talk to them now," she thought. "I

can't face Ashley tonight and comfort him. Not tonight! Tomorrow

morning I'll come early and do the things I must do, say the

comforting things I must say. But not tonight. I can't. I'm

going home."

Home was only five blocks away. She would not wait for the sobbing

Peter to harness the buggy, would not wait for Dr. Meade to drive

her home. She could not endure the tears of the one, the silent

condemnation of the other. She went swiftly down the dark front

steps without her coat or bonnet and into the misty night. She

rounded the corner and started up the long hill toward Peachree

Street, walking in a still wet world, and even her footsteps were

as noiseless as a dream.

As she went up the hill, her chest tight with tears that would not

come, there crept over her an unreal feeling, a feeling that she

had been in this same dim chill place before, under a like set of

circumstances--not once but many times before. How silly, she

thought uneasily, quickening her steps. Her nerves were playing

her tricks. But the feeling persisted, stealthily pervading her

mind. She peered about her uncertainly and the feeling grew, eerie

but familiar, and her head went up sharply like an animal scenting

danger. It's just that I'm worn out, she tried to soothe herself.

And the night's so queer, so misty. I never saw such thick mist

before except--except!

And then she knew and fear squeezed her heart. She knew now. In a

hundred nightmares, she had fled through fog like this, through a

haunted country without landmarks, thick with cold cloaking mist,

peopled with clutching ghosts and shadows. Was she dreaming again

or was this her dream come true?

For an instant, reality went out of her and she was lost. The old

nightmare feeling was sweeping her, stronger than ever, and her

heart began to race. She was standing again amid death and

stillness, even as she had once stood at Tara. All that mattered

in the world had gone out of it, life was in ruins and panic howled

through her heart like a cold wind. The horror that was in the

mist and was the mist laid hands upon her. And she began to run.

As she had run a hundred times in dreams, she ran now, flying

blindly she knew not where, driven by a nameless dread, seeking in

the gray mist for the safety that lay somewhere.

Up the dim street she fled, her head down, her heart hammering, the

night air wet on her lips, the trees overhead menacing. Somewhere,

somewhere in this wild land of moist stillness, there was a refuge!

She sped gasping up the long hill, her wet skirts wrapping coldly

about her ankles, her lungs bursting, the tight-laced stays

pressing her ribs into her heart.

Then before her eyes there loomed a light, a row of lights, dim and

flickering but none the less real. In her nightmare, there had

never been any lights, only gray fog. Her mind seized on those

lights. Lights meant safety, people, reality. Suddenly she

stopped running, her hands clenching, struggling to pull herself

out of her panic, staring intently at the row of gas lamps which

had signaled to her brain that this was Peachtree Street, Atlanta,

and not the gray world of sleep and ghosts.

She sank down panting on a carriage block, clutching at her nerves

as though they were ropes slipping swiftly through her hands.

"I was running--running like a crazy person!" she thought, her body

shaking with lessening fear, her thudding heart making her sick.