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364 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1998
They saw it, the winking curves of walnut wood. And presto Covington was enjoined to render a tune, a merry jig played in the inn near the crowded kennel where Spit and Polish were fart-daniels in his Pa's litter. Pelting over the bridge Covington bowed, raising a fine dust of resin. Soon his four were fox-hunting, with all the tally-hos and tarantaras in their tiny State Room, their sweaty shirts and stitch-busting breeches jerking around in the close air, the smells of their guts thickening the tropic night. Mr Earle went leapfrogging over the back of the gent with neither room to bend nor turn, and Capt deep in his cups was obliged to render Covington invisible to his emotion.Old beliefs and new discoveries, old language and new; McDonald juggles both brilliantly throughout. But he ends in the simplicity of reconciliation:
He saw Darwin on his knees, and there was no difference between prayer and pulling a worm from the grass. As for Mr Covington, he prayed in the old-fashioned way. It was the last of anything he knew.