Cathy Beck was terribly upset and was on the verge of exploding. In her usual style, she interviewed him for his life and was pleased that he liked nothing more than to talk about himself. Dreams of adorable infants danced through her head as she cradled blankets in her arms. Gerald perhaps would know how to find him. Wood, I forget nothing. Things you would laugh at. It was as if her finite human brain could only store a limit of information, details like hair color and fingernail shape easily jettisoned to make room for the nuances of a grin or the emotion of a shoulder blade. For an instant, Melusine watched him go. The flowers and turf, a wild strawberry, a rare butterfly, and suchlike little intimate things had become more interesting than mountains. Do have another. “You were going to answer it?” “Certainly not!” she said deliberately. 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.
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