“Don’t tell anyone I told you this. She succumbed to cancer of the breast at age forty-three, it was slow and wasting. “Lift up one corner of the curtain for me. ‘It is what my father intended. Kneebone, on his return from Manchester. They WERE weird. She turned her head away sharply. 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. “Come to my rooms and have a drink.
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