She hoped the lights would become hot enough to melt her into the floor. ’ Joan nodded, her face still averted. ” She took his hand, interrupting him. The season was ripe for mating, she thought to herself bitterly. Past her shot the little old lady in the bonnet, running incredibly fast, but otherwise still alertly respectable, and she was making a strange threatening sound as she ran, such as one would use in driving ducks out of a garden—“B-rr-r-r-r—!” and pawing with black-gloved hands. Sometimes I tremble, Anna, to think how near I came to passing through life without a single glimpse, a moment’s revelation of this greatest and most awful of mysteries, the mystery of primaeval nature.
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