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the pageant of my peculiar philosophy, the pageant of my dull, dull life,—and the pageant of the Possibilities.
We three go out on the sand and barrenness: my wooden heart, my good young woman's-body, my soul. We go there and contemplate the long sandy wastes, the red, red line on the sky at the setting of the sun, the cold gloomy mountains under it, the ground without a weed, without a grass-blade even in their season—for they have years ago been killed off by the sulphur smoke from the smelters.
So this sand and barrenness forms the setting for the personality of me.
