“You found the cabochon? After all these years?” He asked, incredulous. He thought of her and himself, and no longer in that vein of incidental adventure in which he had begun. 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. Her anger parlayed with her confusion, as she realized that the new marriage was about as optional as the first one and her hunger was growing inside her like a weed. Living, he knew that he would never send that letter. “I am. ” He returned to and developed that idea. “I can only repeat what I said before,” she declared. He will have it that I’ve taken leave of my senses.
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