Then she took her sister’s hand. She rehearsed the story of her forlorn long lost mother in her head, what she would say to the theorymongers. Gerald was conscious of that sliver of irritation again at mention of the name. These little squares of coloured paper interested her mightily—hotel labels. It seemed that within an instant the Pestilence struck, and she begged me on her deathbed to shelter you and her grandson for the rest of your lives, as she could see that even though I was a ‘demon fiend’ and ‘minor devil’ that I loved you. Once in the room, the door locked, the sense of loneliness had dropped away from her as the mists used to drop away from the mountain in the morning. It dealt from floor to ceiling and end to end with the Theory of the Forms of Life; the very duster by the blackboard was there to do its share in that work, the very washers in the taps; the room was more simply concentrated in aim even than a church.
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