. . Only a
look and a voice. . . But who can comprehend the unfathomable
influence of a look?. . . which may come to a soul sad and weary,
longing to give up the struggle. . ."
When she awoke next morning raindrops were beating a reiterative
plaint against the window, and the sound seemed very beautiful. She
liked lying in bed, staring out at the upper reaches of sombre sky.
She liked it to be rainy when she woke up--there was something about
leaden colour everywhere and falling rain that made you fit for
nothing but placid staring, yet, at the same time, pleasantly
meditative. Then was the time that the strange big things which
filter through your dreams linger evanescently in your mind to
ponder over.
"Only a look and a voice--but who can comprehend the--the--the
unfathomable influence of a look? It may come to a soul--may come to
a soul--"
Bother! How did that go?
Missy shut her eyes and tried to resummon the vision, to rehear
those rhythmic words so fraught with wisdom. But all she saw was a
sort of heterogeneous mass of whirling colours, and her thoughts,
too, seemed to be just a confused and meaningless jumble.
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