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“
And she proceeded to give the minutest details of the reverend Father's sufferings, omitting nothing which could make her account more graphic.
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There are mornings when, from the first ray of light seized upon by the eye, and the first simple sounds that get inside the head, the heart is convinced that it is existing in rhythm to a kind of unheard music, familiar but forgotten because long ago it was interrupted and only now has suddenly resumed playing. The silent melodies pass through the fabric of the consciousness like the wind through the meshes of a net, without moving it, but at the same time unmistakably there, all around it. For
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― The Spider's House
― The Spider's House
