’ ‘He does not call himself my father, for he calls himself nothing at all,’ Melusine told him, her tone violent with fury. Sometimes it seemed that she would never recover it. 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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