‘I am not a person, Marthe. It’s odd how little I know of him, and of how he feels and what he feels. ’ ‘Yes, but I have not gone,’ Melusine said impatiently. 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. The winter had turned sea and sky to a wet gray.
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