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| Photo by Craig Sargent |
At this moment, as so often happens in
London, there was a complete lull and suspension of traffic. Nothing came down
the street; nobody passed. A single leaf detached itself from the plane tree at
the end of the street, and in that pause and suspension fell. Somehow it was
like a signal falling, a signal pointing to a force in things which one had overlooked.
It seemed to point to a river, which flowed past, invisibly, round the corner,
down the street, and took people and
eddied them along, as the stream at Oxbridge had taken the undergraduate in his
boat and the dead leaves.
A Room of One’s Own (95)
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