“Indeed, no,” he answered. And now she was discovering that even Nature was something of a liar, with her mirages and her horizons. You will survive, mark my words. He began to think of speeches, very firm, explicit speeches, he would make. Moving back to the corner again, she ran a hand back over the leather-bound books—which, she realised, were not books at all. 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 was wholly unable to conceal her knowledge of his presence. "Ah!" he exclaimed, as the painting was turned towards him.
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