“You will have some tea?” she asked. The mother was far more real to her than the father; the ghostly far more substantial than the living form. She would be enduing this chap with attributes he did not possess, clothing him in fictional ruffles. The world is like a peppery horse. The very blank, however, affected him more deeply than if it had been left. ‘You do not dare look in my clothes. Moving back to the corner again, she ran a hand back over the leather-bound books—which, she realised, were not books at all. He was unaware that his illness had opened the way to the inherent conscience and that the acquired had been temporarily blanketed, or that there was any ancient fanaticalism in his blood. But I dare not accept it.
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