One puts gloves on one’s greedy fingers. That was the wonder of these stories; one lived in them. 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. “Is it okay if I go to the Junior Prom with John Diedermayer?” She asked Cathy in a low voice. The wards on the right were occupied by male patients, on the left by the female. ‘In the bookroom, sir,’ answered the man, his eyes round as they took in the furious beauty at the visitor’s side.
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