He would read the jokes and illustrate them; and after a time I could see the point of a joke without having it explained to me. He tried not to think—of Ruth with her mother's locket, of her misguided father, taking his lonely way to sea. “Do something!” But he laid by his prey, half-watching the fight, gorging on the woman he had caught that had been meant for Rhea and her child. “Go on!” “You know—in Paris they coupled my name with some one’s—an Englishman’s. 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.
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