"Allow him that small grace," cried Wood. “What is the exact force of a motif?” she asked at random. "To be lonely! What is physical torture, if someone who loves you is nigh? But to be alone … as I am!… yes, and as you are! Oh, you haven't told me, but I can see with half an eye. He felt like a boy again, the taste for adventures was keen upon his palate, the whole undiscovered world of rhythmical things, of love and poetry and passion seemed again to him a real and actual place, and he himself an adventurer upon the threshold. . She found him reclined, watching television in a small guest room hidden in a back wing of the massive house. This salute of his—actually the first she could remember—while it did not disturb her, began to lead her thoughts into new channels of speculation. !" "I understand," interrupted McClintock.
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