“Fearful old fogey! I can’t imagine any sister of yours putting up with him for a moment. ’ ‘Because I like you, of course,’ Gerald said promptly. I was always told my mother died the day I was born. 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. Lucy had baked the apple and pumpkin pies, carefully molding the flour crusts and adding extra teaspoonfuls of allspice and cinnamon while no one looked.
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