He could remember when women laid away their gowns in lavender—as this girl's mother had. The little streaks upon the germinating area of an egg, the nervous movements of an impatient horse, the trick of a calculating boy, the senses of a fish, the fungus at the root of a garden flower, and the slime upon a sea-wet rock—ten thousand such things bear their witness and are illuminated. She made noises between weeping and laughter as she went. Now I do. “You see, dear, one IS passionately anxious for something—what is it? One wants to be CLEAN. But what did the occupant of the box care? The laugh was always with the dead: they were out of the muddle.
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