Волны

           Imadenotesforstories;drewportraitsinthemarginofmypocket-bookandthusbecamestillmoreseparate.HereareoneortwoofthefiguresIsaw.

           ’Percivalsatstaringstraightaheadofhimthatdayinchapel.Healsohadawayofflickinghishandtothebackofhisneck.Hismovementswerealwaysremarkable.Weallflickedourhandstothebacksofourheads--unsuccessfully.Hehadthekindofbeautywhichdefendsitselffromanycaress.Ashewasnotintheleastprecocious,hereadwhateverwaswrittenupforouredificationwithoutanycomment,andthoughtwiththatmagnificentequanimity(Latinwordscomenaturally)thatwastopreservehimfromsomanymeannessesandhumiliations,thatLucy’sflaxenpigtailsandpinkcheeksweretheheightoffemalebeauty.Thuspreserved,histastelaterwasofextremefineness.Butthereshouldbemusic,somewildcarol.Throughthewindowshouldcomeahunting-songfromsomerapidunapprehendedlife--asoundthatshoutsamongthehillsanddiesaway.Whatisstartling,whatisunexpected,whatwecannotaccountfor,whatturnssymmetrytononsense--thatcomessuddenlytomymind,thinkingofhim.Thelittleapparatusofobservationisunhinged.Pillarsgodown;theDoctorfloatsoff;somesuddenexaltationpossessesme.Hewasthrown,ridinginarace,andwhenIcamealongShaftesburyAvenuetonight,thoseinsignificantandscarcelyformulatedfacesthatbubbleupoutofthedoorsoftheTube,andmanyobscureIndians,andpeopledyingoffamineanddisease,andwomenwhohavebeencheated,andwhippeddogsandcryingchildren--alltheseseemedtomebereft.