I’ve had enough of it. 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. Then he took me out to Monteaux, on a motor. The nun on the threshold was of middle age and heavily built, her back uneven from toil and her hands roughened. She had found that proof. A wrathful God was watching him. “John?” He turned around in the recliner. He feared to antagonize that distinguished person. ‘Don’t lose your temper again.
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